^  .  1 

^^plj 

i'  ■ 


Wooden  Grosses 


BY 

ROLAND    DORGELES 


* 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

^be  'Knicfierboclter  pre60 

1921 


Copyright,  ipir 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


^N 


PrinUd  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. — Brothers  in  Arms  . 

II. — In  the  Sweat  of  Thy  Brow 

III. — The  Red  Pennon    . 

IV.— Good  Days      . 

v.— Vigil 

VI. — The  Mill  with  no  Sails 

VII. — In  the  Caf6  de  la  Marine 

VIII. — Mount  Calvary 

IX. — Mourir  pour  la  Patrie 

X. — Our  Lady  of  the  Rag-Pickers 

XI. — Victory 

XII. — In  the  Garden  of  the  Dead 

XIII. — The  House  with  the  White  Bou 
QUET 

XIV. — Love's  Own  Words. 

XV. — En  Revenant  de  Montmartre 

XVI.— The  Hero's  Return 

XVII. — And  now  it  is  Over        .         . 


I 
23 
33 
68 
88 
117 
168 

183 
206 
209 

234 
276 

297 
310 
322 

375 
396 


ill 


439193 


Wooden  Crosses 


CHAPTER  I 

BROTHERS  IN  ARMS 

Although  flowers  were  already  scarce  at  this 
season  of  the  year,  none  the  less  there  had  been 
found  enough  to  bedeck  all  the  rifles  in  the  com- 
pany, and,  as  rich  in  blossoms  as  a  cemetery,  the 
battalion,  drums  and  fifes  at  its  head,  had  poured 
helter-skelter  across  the  town  between  two  mute 
hedgerows  of  wide-eyed  onlookers. 

With  songs  and  tears  and  laughing  and  drunk- 
ards' quarrellings  and  heart-rending  good-byes  they 
had  gone  on  board  their  train.  All  night  they  had 
rolled  along,  had  eaten  their  sardines  and  emptied 
their  water-bottles  by  the  wretched  glimmer  of  a 
single  candle;  then,  tired  of  their  loud  talk,  they 
had  gone  to  sleep,  heaped  up  one  against  another, 
heads  on  shoulders,  their  legs  intermingled  with 
one  another. 

Dawn  had  awakened  them.  Hanging  out  their 
carriage  doors,  they  scanned  the  villages,  from 
which  the  early  morning  smoke  was  rising,  for 


2  Wooden  Crosses 

traces  of  the  recent  fighting.  Man  hailed  man 
from  carriage  to  carriage. 

*'Talk  about  a  war;  not  as  much  as  a  spire 
smashed  up!" 

Then  the  houses  opened  their  eyes,  the  roadways 
came  to  Hfe,  and  finding  voice  once  more  to  shout 
facetious  love-makings,  they  flung  their  withered 
flowers  at  the  women  who  were  on  the  platform 
at  every  station,  waiting  the  unlikely  return  of 
their  vanished  sailormen.  At  every  halt  they  eased 
themselves  and  filled  the  water-bottles.  And  at 
length,  about  ten  o'clock,  they  detrained  at 
Dormans,  stupefied  and  bruised. 

A  pause  of  an  hour  for  soup,  and  they  went  off 
by  the  road — no  dnmis  and  fifes,  no  flowers,  no 
waving  handkerchiefs — and  reached  the  village 
where  our  regiment  was  resting,  close  up  behind 
the  lines. 

There  it  was  just  like  a  great  fair*  their  weary 
flock  was  broken  up  into  little  groups — one  to  a 
company — and  the  quartermasters  rapidly  marked 
off  for  each  a  section  or  squad,  which  they  must 
hunt  up  from  farm  to  farm,  like  shelterless  tramps, 
reading  on  every  door  the  big  white  numbers 
marked  in  chalk. 

Breval,  the  corporal,  who  was  coming  out  from 
the  grocer's  shop,  found  the  three  that  were  for  us 
as  they  were  dragging  along  in  the  street,  crushed 
under  their  overladen  packs,  in  which  brand-new 
camp  utensils  shone  with  an  insolent  brilliancy. 

*' Third  company,   fifth  squad?     I'm  the  cor- 


Brothers  in  Arms  3 

poral.  Come  on;  we're  billeted  down  at  the  end 
of  the  dear  old  town." 

When  they  came  into  the  courtyard  it  was 
Fouillard,  the  cook,  who  gave  the  warning. 

"I  say,  lads,  there's  the  new  chums  coming." 

And  flinging  down  in  front  of  the  blackened 
ashlar  of  his  rustic  fireplace  the  armful  of  paper  he 
had  just  fetched  up  out  of  the  cellar,  he  examined 
the  new  conrades. 

"You've  not  let  yourself  be  cheated,"  he  said 
solemnly  to  Breval.   "They're  as  fine  as  new  pins." 

All  of  us  had  got  up  and  were  ringing  round  the 
three  bewildered  soldiers  with  a  curious  group. 
They  stared  at  us  and  we  stared  at  them,  without 
a  word  spoken.  They  were  arriving  from  behind, 
arriving  from  the  towns.  Yesterday  they  had  still 
been  walking  along  real  streets  seeing  women, 
trams,  shops;  yesterday  they  were  still  living  the 
lives  of  men.  And  we  took  stock  of  them  wonder- 
ingly,  enviously,  as  though  they  had  been  travel- 
lers disembarking  from  strange  legendary  lands. 

"And  so,  you  lads,  they're  not  bothering  them- 
selves too  much  back  there?" 

"And  dear  old  Panama,"  asked  Vairon,  "what 
are  they  up  to  there?" 

They  on  their  side  eyed  us  hard,  as  though  they 
had  fallen  among  savages.  Everything  must  have 
astonished  them  in  this  first  meeting,  our  baked 
faces,  our  widely  incongruous  get-up;  Papa 
Hamel's  imitation  otter-skin  cap;  the  filthy,  once 
white  neckerchief  Fouillard  wore  knotted  about 


4  Wooden  Crosses 

his  neck;  Vairon's  trousers,  stiff  and  shining  with 
grease;  the  cape  Lagny  wore,  the  Haison  orderly, 
who  had  stitched  an  astrachan  collar  on  to  a 
zouave's  hood;  some  in  a  "rag-picker's"  round 
jacket,  some  in  artillery  tunics — each  and  every- 
one accoutred  according  to  his  own  fashion;  fat 
Bouffioux,  who  wore  his  identification  disc  in  his 
kepi,  as  Louis  XI.  wore  his  medals;  a  machine 
gunner  with  his  metal  shoulder-pieces  and  his  iron 
gauntlet  that  made  him  look  like  a  man-at-arms 
from  Crecy;  little  Belin  with  his  head  thrust  up 
to  the  ears  in  an  old  dragoon's  cap;  and  Broucke, 
"the  lad  from  oop  north,"  who  had  cut  puttees  for 
himself  out  of  green  rep  curtains. 

Sulphart  alone  had  remained  aloof  out  of 
dignity,  perched  upon  a  cask,  where  he  was  peeling 
potatoes  with  the  serious,  concentrated  air  he  al- 
ways assumed  to  go  through  the  simplest  acts  of 
everyday  existence.  Scratching  in  his  flaming 
bristle  beard,  he  turned  his  head  with  a  negligent 
air,  and  gazed  with  affected  nonchalance  at  one 
of  the  three  newcomers,  a  quite  young  fellow  with 
a  sullen  look,  beardless  or  clean-shaven — impos- 
sible to  tell  which — wearing  a  fine  fancy  kepi  and 
laden  with  a  broad  satchel  made  of  moleskin. 

"He's  a  real  dandy  lad,  with  his  little  cap  like  a 
cat's-meat  dish!"  scoffed  Sulphart  first  of  all  half 
to  himself. 

Then  as  the  other  set  down  his  kit,  he  discovered 
the  satchel.     Then  he  broke  out. 

**Hi!  old  boy!"  he  exclaimed;  "did  you  have 


Brothers  in  Arms  5 

your  little  game-bag  made  special  to  order  for 
going  up  into  the  trenches?  If  you  had  a  stray 
idea  that  the  Boches  wouldn't  mark  you  down  as 
much  as  you  wanted,  you  might  perhaps  have 
brought  along  a  little  flag  and  tootled  on  a 
trumpet." 

The  new  chum  had  straightened  himself  up, 
annoyed,  with  a  frown  making  a  bar  across  his 
obstinate  little  forehead.  But  all  at  once,  put 
out  of  countenance  by  the  jeering  attitude  of  the 
old  hand,  he  turned  his  head  away  and  started  to 
blush.  The  redhead  was  quite  satisfied  with  his 
flattering  success  for  his  joke.  He  descended  from 
his  lofty  throne,  and,  just  to  prove  that  he  had  no 
intention  of  savaging  a  comrade  who  was  not  re- 
sponsible, he  shifted  his  strictures  higher  up  to  the 
military  powers  whose  every  act  and  deed,  accord- 
ing to  him,  were  dictated  by  pure  foolishness  and  a 
manifest  desire  to  harass  the  soldier-man. 

**I'm  not  saying  this  for  you — you  don't  know 
any  better  yet — but  those  idiots  that  make  you 
rub  the  dixies  up  with  sabre-paste  so  that  they  may 
shine  better.  Do  you  fancy  they  don't  all  deserve 
to  be  shot?  .  .  .  Do  they  think  we  don't  make 
a  good  enough  target  without  that  ?  Here,  chuck 
us  over  your  bag.  I'll  blacken  it  with  burnt  cork, 
and  will  run  your  bottles,  your  dixies,  and  the 
whole  bag  o'  tricks  through  straw  smoke — there's 
nothing  better  than  that." 

Lemoine,  who  was  never  more  than  a  single  pace 
away  from  Sulphart,  shrugged  his  shoulders  slowly. 


6  Wooden  Crosses 

"You're  never  going  to  drive  these  poor  blight- 
ers daft  already  with  your  flash  patter,"  said  he 
reproachfully  in  his  slow,  dragging  voice.  ''Let 
them  alone,  anyway,  till  they  at  least  get  well  off 
the  train." 

The  newcomer  of  the  white  satchel  had  taken 
his  seat  on  a  wheelbarrow.  He  seemed  quite  ex- 
hausted. Black  runnels  of  sweat  had  traced 
bracketing  lines  from  his  temples  to  the  lower  part 
of  his  cheeks.  He  unrolled  his  puttees  but  did  not 
venture  to  take  off  his  boots — fine  shooting-boots 
with  extra  wide  welts. 

"My  heel  is  all  skinned,"  he  said  to  me.  "My 
boot  must  be  full  of  blood.  I'm  carrying  such  a 
weight." 

Lemoine  weighed  his  kit. 

* '  That's  a  heavy  one  for  sure, ' '  said  he.  * '  What 
on  earth  have  you  managed  to  bung  into  it  ?  .  .  . 
Have  you  been  putting  in  paving-stones? " 

"Just  what  I  was  told  to  put  in." 

"It's  the  cartridges  that  weigh  heavy,"  put  in 
the  corporal.     '  *  How  many  did  they  give  you  ? ' ' 

"Two  hundred  and  fifty,  .  .  .  but  I  haven't 
got  them  in  my  pack.'* 

"Where  are  they,  then?" 

"In  my  satchel.  You  see,  I  like  it  better  like 
that.     Suppose  we  were  attacked  all  of  a  sudden." 

"Attacked?" 

The  others  stared  at  him  in  amazement.  Then 
they  all  started  to  laugh  with  one  accord,  a  huge 
laugh  that  they  exaggerated  still  further,  stifling, 


Brothers  in  Arms  7 

gesticulating,  exchanging  heavy  slaps  on  the  shoul- 
der like  caresses  delivered  with  washerwomen's 
beetles. 

''Attacked,  .  .  .  that's  what  he  said  1  There's 
a  bloke  that's  got  them  again!  .    .    .  " 

*'No,  no.     He's  got  the  wind  up  .    .    .  " 

** Attacked,  that's  what  he  said.  .  .  .  He's 
crazy.   .    .    .     Put  the  dogs  on  him !  .    .    ." 

This  vast  candour  made  us  laugh  till  we  were 
like  to  choke.  Papa  Hamel  laughed  till  he  cried. 
Fouillard,  for  his  part,  was  not  laughing.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  hostile  all  at  once,  already 
looking  askance  at  this  soldier  who  was  much  too 
clean  and  who  spoke  much  too  politely. 

' '  A  lad  with  dibs  who  means  to  come  them  over 
us,"  said  he  to  Sulphart. 

The  redhead,  bent  only  on  talking  more  than 
anybody  else,  was  considering  the  newcomer  with 
compassion. 

"But,  my  poor  lad,"  said  he,  "you  don't  really 
suppose  we  are  fighting  that  way  now?  That  was 
all  right  for  the  first  month.  We  don't  fight  any 
more  now — maybe  you'll  never  be  fighting." 

"Sure  enough,"  said  Lemoine,  backing  him  up, 
"you  won't  fight;  but  you'll  jabber  about  it  all 
the  same." 

"You'll  never  fire  a  cartridge,"  prophesied 
Broucke,  the  ch'timi  with  the  child's  eyes. 

The  newcomer  made  no  answer,  doubtless  think- 
ing that  the  old  hands  were  trying  to  pull  his  leg. 
But  with  his  ear  cocked,  instead  of  listening  to 


8  Wooden  Crosses 

Sulphart's  discourse,  he  was  hearkening  to  the  big 
gun  shaking  the  very  sky  with  its  big  bellow,  and 
he  would  fain  have  been  over  there  already,  on  the 
far  side  of  the  blue  line  of  hills,  in  the  unknown 
plain  where  they  were  playing  out  the  game  of 
war  with  its  fragrance  of  danger. 


The  newcomer  introduced  himself  to  me.  * '  Gil- 
bert Demachy.  ...  I  was  doing  law.  .  .  . " 
And  I  made  myself  known. 

''Jacques  Larcher.  I  am  a  writer.  .  .  .** 
From  his  first  appearance  I  knew  that  Gilbert 
would  be  my  friend;  I  knew  it  at  once  from  his 
voice,  his  speech,  his  ways.  Before  very  long  I 
was  saying  "vous"  to  him,  and  we  talked  of  Paris. 
In  short,  I  was  finding  someone  with  whom  I  could 
discourse  of  our  books,  our  theatres,  our  cafes,  of 
pretty  girls  breathing  perfume.  The  very  names 
I  was  pronotmcing  made  me  live  over  again  for  a 
moment  all  that  lost  happiness.  I  remember  that 
Gilbert,  as  he  sat  on  his  barrow,  had  his  shoeless 
feet  on  a  newspaper  by  way  of  carpet.  We  talked 
on  and  on  excitedly. 

"You    remember   .    .    .      Do    you    remember? 

if 

The  boys  gave  the  newcomers  a  hand  in  install- 
ing themselves  in  the  stables  where  the  squad  had 
their  sleeping-quarters,  and  piled  their  kits  with 
ours  in  the  manger.  When  they  had  finished,  Gil- 
bert held  out  two  five-franc  notes  to  stand  drinks. 


Brothers  in  Arms  9 

"That's  that  coming  it  over  us,'*  growled  Fouil- 
lard  jealous. 

The  others,  full  of  gratitude,  went  back  to  the 
stable  to  make  ready  a  place  for  the  new  comrade. 
They  tossed  up  his  straw  in  armfuls  to  freshen  it, 
and  made  him  a  ledge  round  his  feet.  Broucke 
had  taken  respectful  possession  of  Demachy's 
rubber  pillow,  and  was  amusing  himself  by  inflat- 
ing it,  like  a  plaything,  with  a  secret  fear  of  wearing 
it  out.  Those  who  must  needs  change  place  in 
order  to  make  room  for  the  others  were  making  the 
necessary  move,  and  mutually  stealing  each  other's 
straw. 

"Here,  you,  big  belly,"  said  Fouillard  to 
Bouffioux,  "you're  to  sleep  up  above  in  the  loft. 
Seeing  that  I'm  sleeping  just  below  you,  take  care 
you  don't  drop  down  on  top  of  me  in  the  night 
with  your  boots  on  my  dial;  I  don't  sleep  too 
sound." 

Sulphart  never  let  go  of  the  newcomer,  bewilder- 
ing him  with  useless  advice  and  ridiculous  tips, 
partly  from  natural  good-nature,  partly  in  return 
for  his  standing  treat,  but  most  of  all  to  make  him- 
self important.  Everybody  was  gay,  as  if  they 
had  already  had  their  drink;  Vairon  in  his  shirt 
started  to  act  the  strong  man  in  the  fair,  calling 
out  his  patter  in  a  fat,  common  voice  that  had  the 
true  smack  of  the  barrier.  Ranged  all  about  him, 
we  took  the  place  of  the  crowd.  Jealous  of  the 
hit  he  was  making,  Sulphart  took  Lemoine  by  the 
sleeve. 


lo  Wooden  Crosses 

"Come  with  me." 

*'Why  the  deuce  should  I  go  with  you?'*  said 
Lemoine,  always  ready  to  oppose  the  redhead 
before  falling  in  with  him. 

"Come  along!" 

Protesting  the  while,  Lemoine  followed  him  to  the 
staircase.  The  notary's  house,  the  stable  of  which 
we  were  humbly  occupying,  was  a  handsome  rustic 
habitation  with  a  high  cap  of  slates,  corbels  of 
stucco,  and  a  curiously  painted  sundial  that 
showed  noon  precisely  on  the  stroke  of  ten  o'clock. 

It  stood  to  receive  its  guests  at  the  top  of  a  wide 
stone  stair,  and  its  newly  painted  shutters  were  of 
the  same  green  as  young  leaves.  They  had  re- 
mained shut  since  the  beginning  of  the  war.  The 
owners  had  fled  with  the  advance  of  the  Germans, 
without  having  had  time  to  save  anything,  and 
they  had  never  come  back.  The  baggage-master 
had  at  one  time  installed  his  quarters  in  it,  but  as 
a  shell  one  fine  morning  opened  a  new  bull's-eye 
window  in  the  front,  he  had  thought  it  prudent  to 
remove  himself  to  the  other  side  of  the  district. 

We  had  been  definitely  and  specifically  for- 
bidden to  set  foot  inside  the  house,  every  door  of 
which  was  bolted  and  barred.  Morache,  the 
adjutant,  who  delighted  in  spoiling  us  with  this 
kind  of  compromise,  had  forthwith  announced 
that  whoever  transgressed  the  order  would  get  a 
dozen  bullets  in  his  hide,  without  counting  the 
coup  de  grdce  to  finish  him.  That  put  it  in  Sul- 
phart's  mind  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  villa.    Now  he 


Brothers  in  Arms  n 

knew  it  in  its  every  nook  and  corner,  delicately 
opening  the  doors  with  great  kicks  when  an  adroit 
leverage  with  a  bayonet  stump  proved  insufficient. 

He  brought  Lemoine  to  the  first  floor,  into  a 
large  room  with  light-coloured  hangings. 

"Here's  what  we  want,"  said  he,  opening  the 
wardrobe. 

And  flinging  out  linen  and  dresses  pell-mell  on  to 
the  carpeted  floor,  rummaging  in  drawers,  clearing 
the  shelves,  he  took  his  choice. 

*'  I'm  going  to  get  myself  up  like  a  girl,  and  you'll 
be  a  man.     Do  you  twig,  donkey-face?" 

Time  to  tear  a  few  bodices  in  unsuccessful 
tryings-on,  and  they  were  able  to  admire  them- 
selves in  the  long  mirror,  transformed  to  a  Shrove 
Tuesday  bridal  pair.  When  they  made  their 
appearance  in  the  courtyard,  arm-in-arm,  there 
was  one  brief  moment  of  stupefied  wonder,  and 
then  a  wild  clamour  greeted  them. 

"  Hurrah  for  the  wedding ! "  yelled  Fouillard  first 
of  all. 

The  others  yelled  and  shouted  louder,  and  the 
•fvhole  squad,  howling  with  delight,  surrounded 
the  two  figures  of  fun.  Sulphart  had  pulled  on 
over  his  red  trousers  a  pretty  pair  of  lady's  drawers 
trimmed  with  lace,  that  showed  his  broad  crimson 
behind  through  its  opening.  He  had  donned  a 
kind  of  white  dressing- jacket,  and  on  his  bristling 
collier's  head  he  had  set  a  bridal  wreath  all  awry, 
made  of  slightly  yellowing  orange-blossom — the 
wreath  of  the  lawyer's  wife,  that  had  been  reposing 


12  Wooden  Crosses 

under  a  glass  shade.  Lemoine,  who  was  not  laugh- 
ing, but  had  rather  the  careworn  look  of  a  soldier 
on  duty,  had  been  satisfied  with  a  Scotch  kilt,  a 
free-and-easy  get-up  whose  regrettable  lack  of 
reticence  he  subdued  by  a  frock-coat  with  satin 
lapels,  and  an  orthodox  tall  hat  that  had  been  sedu- 
lously brushed  the  wrong  way  as  a  preliminary. 

Little  Broucke,  in  a  state  of  happy  amaze,  was 
prancing  behind  them  as  if  he  was  at  a  village 
festival. 

"I'm  off  to  the  wedding!"  he  cried. 

Singing  and  shouting,  everybody  started  to 
dance,  accompanied  by  Fouillard,  who  fancied  he 
was  providing  music  by  banging  on  the  black 
bottom  of  his  pot  with  a  bayonet  hilt. 

"Hurrah  for  the  bride!"  we  all  repeated  in 
chorus. 

Breval's  thin  face  was  widened  by  a  happy  grin. 
All  the  same,  he  was  trying  to  quiet  us  down. 

"Not  so  loud!  Good  Lord!  one  of  the  officers 
will  hear  you." 

Vairon  had  taken  Sulphart  round  the  waist,  and 
was  dancing  a  Java  with  all  the  airs  and  graces  of 
a  village  hop;  while  Lemoine,  imagining  himself 
at  the  local  f^te,  was  cutting  pigeon's- wings  and 
clapping  his  hobnailed  heels  together. 

"And  the  feast  goes  on.  Hurrah  for  the  Mayor !" 
yelled  the  cook,  who  was  vainly  trying  to  wash  his 
black  hands  by  rubbing  them  in  his  perspiring 
forehead. 

They  were  hopping  one  behind  the  other,  like  a 


Brothers  in  Arms  13 

farandole,  and  laughing  like  urchins.  The  new 
chum  followed  at  the  tail,  halting  and  tripping, 
holding  on  to  Lagny  by  the  hood.  Sulphart,  with 
his  mouth  dry  as  ashes,  was  the  first  to  break  away 
from  the  ring. 

"Good  lord,  we're  choking  here!  And  that 
other  joker  who  isn't  coming  back  with  the  wine. 
So  long  as  he  doesn't  let  Morache  grab  him." 

The  thought  of  such  a  catastrophe  halted  the 
dancers. 

"And  now  would  be  just  the  moment  for  a 
cherry  drink,"  mourned  Vairon. 

*'But  someone  else  can  go  and  buy  more,"  said 
Demachy,  producing  two  further  notes.  "I've 
laughed  too  much,  I  could  do  very  well  with  a 
drink." 

Respectfully  or  jealously,  all  the  comrades 
looked  on  as  the  new  chum  opened  his  purse  of 
fine  leather,  and  Broucke  was  so  overcome  that 
he  said,  "Thank  you,"  when  he  took  the  money. 

Fouillard,  who  had  forgotten  all  about  his  stew, 
had  flung  himself  down  on  all  fours  before  his 
blackened  fire,  and  was  puffing  and  blowing  with 
might  and  main  on  the  ashes,  without  raising  a 
single  spark  out  of  them. 

"Go  and  get  some  paper,"  he  begged;  "this 
bitch  of  wet  wood  won't  catch." 

Somebody  made  his  way  down  into  the  cellar 
and  brought  up  a  pile  of  many-coloured  papers, 
which  he  flung  down  near  the  fireplace.  Stray 
leaves  flew  about,  white  and  blue,  mostly  of  the 


14  Wooden  Crosses 

same  shape  and  size.  They  were  the  notary's 
papers.  The  flame  as  it  flickered  up  made  them 
flutter,  and  for  a  moment  it  seemed  as  though 
there  could  be  deciphered,  even  in  the  fire  itself, 
the  fine  round  legal  script  and  the  insertions  of 
peasant  handwriting. 

"I  think  that's  a  bit  thick,  I  do,"  said  Lemoine 
in  his  simple  voice.  * '  Those  are  things  that  should 
be  kept.  ...  Suppose  somebody  was  burning 
my  old  folk's  bits  of  paper  for  their  land;  I'd  have 
him  behind  bars  for  it." 

"Shut  your  jaw!"  coughed  Fouillard  out  of  the 
smoke.  "It  was  you  yourself  that  wouldn't  let 
the  door  be  burned,  and  made  us  go  and  hunt  for 
this  filthy  rubbish  of  green  wood  that  won't  catch. 
As  if  it  wasn't  wartime!" 

"For  sure  it's  wartime,"  said  little  Belin  ap- 
provingly. He  had  planned  to  make  himself  a 
waistcoat  out  of  a  frock-coat,  and  was  very  care- 
fully cutting  away  the  skirts. 

"That's  true,  we  are  making  war,"  repeated  the 
new  chum,  clinking  glasses  with  Broucke. 

And  looking  at  Sulphart  in  his  drawers  of  fine 
lawn,  he  began  to  laugh. 

' '  Nobody  would  think  of  it , "  said  he.  ' '  There's 
lots  of  fun  up  at  the  front.  I  was  certain  I  wouldn't 
be  nearly  as  bored  as  in  barracks." 

Breval,  whose  hollow  face  had  resumed  his  two 
deep  lines  of  anguish  down  his  cheeks,  looked  at 
him  and  shook  his  head. 

"You  don't  suppose  that  it's  like  this  every  day. 


Brothers  in  Arms  15 

do  you?  You'd  be  very  far  out  if  you  did,  you 
know." 

His  nose  buried  in  his  cup,  Fouillard  was  guffaw- 
ing. Sulphart  the  sympathetic  only  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"That's  not  so  certain,"  said  he. 

"If  you  had  struck  Charleroi  like  me,"  said 
Lagny  to  him,  Lagny  with  his  shrivelled  old 
woman's  face,  "you  wouldn't  have  been  in  such  a 
hurry  to  get  back  to  the  front." 

"And  all  the  same  you  weren't  in  the  retreat, 
you  weren't,"  interrupted  Vairon.  "I  take  my 
oath  that  was  no  rest-camp." 

"Aye,  that  was  the  stiff  est  of  all,  that  was," 
agreed  Lemoine. 

"And  the  Marne?"  asked  Demachy. 

"The  Marne,  that  was  nothing  at  all,"  said 
Sulphart  decidedly.  "It  was  during  the  retreat 
that  we  went  through  it  most.  That  was  where 
you  learnt  to  know  a  man." 

They  were  all  the  same.  The  retreat,  that  was 
the  strategic  operation  they  were  proudest  of,  the 
one  action  they  boasted  immoderately  of  having 
shared  in ;  it  was  the  starting-point  and  foundation 
of  all  their  yarns :  the  retreat,  the  terrible  forced 
march  from  Charleroi  to  Montmirail,  without 
halts,  without  food,  without  objective;  the  regi- 
ments all  mixed  up  together,  zouaves  and  infantry, 
chasseurs  and  engineers;  wounded  men,  bewil- 
dered and  staggering,  pallid  stragglers  that  the 
gendarmes  bowled  over;  the  kits  and  equipments 


i6  Wooden  Crosses 

flung  into  the  ditches;  one-day  battles,  always 
desperate,  sometimes  victorious ;  Guise,  where  the 
German  drew  back;  sleep  deep  as  a  stone  snatched 
on  the  bank  or  on  the  road,  in  spite  of  the  waggons 
that  thundered  by,  crushing  the  sleepers*  feet; 
grocer's  shops  looted,  the  poultry-yards  they 
emptied,  the  machine  gunners  without  mules, 
dragoons  without  horses,  blacks  without  chiefs; 
the  mildewed  bread  that  men  snatched  from  one 
another ;  the  roads  blocked  with  covered  carts  and 
bullock-waggons,  with  women  and  children  all  in 
tears;  the  native  troops  dragging  goats  after  them, 
the  villages  shooting  up  in  flames,  the  bridges  that 
were  blown  up,  the  comrades  that  must  needs  be 
abandoned  all  bloody  and  foundered;  and  all  the 
time,  harassing  the  tragic  column,  the  Boche  can- 
non that  barked  without  stopping.  The  retreat. 
...  In  their  mouths  it  took  on  all  the  air  and 
semblance  of  victory. 

"I  take  my  oath  that  when  you  read  on  the 
milestones,  'Paris,  60  kilometres,*  it  gave  you  a 
funny  feeling." 

*' Especially  the  lads  of  Panama,"  said  long 
Vairon. 

"And  then  after  that,"  wound  up  Sulphart 
carelessly,  like  the  commonplace  epilogue  of  a 
thrilling  story,  "after  that  came  the  Marne." 

"Do  you  remember  the  little  melons  at  Tilloy? 
.    .    .     Nice  lot  we  managed  to  stuff  in!" 

"Aye,  and  the  buckets  of  wine  when  we  came 
into  Gueux." 


Brothers  in  Arms  17 

"I  won't  forget,  for  my  part,  the  sausages  at 
Montmirail.  .  .  .  You  couldn't  move  but  the 
big  shells  were  on  your  tracks.  .  .  .  Ah!  the 
swine!" 

Demachy  had  resumed  his  grave  look,  and  was 
eyeing  these  men  with  envy. 

"I  should  have  liked  well  to  be  there,"  said  he, 
"to  be  in  a  victory." 

*'Sure  it  was  a  victory,"  conceded  Sulphart, 
who  was  turning  his  wreath  round  and  round  in 
his  fingers  like  a  cap.  "If  you  had  been  there 
you'd  have  been  bowled  over  like  the  others,  and 
nothing  more.  Ask  the  lads  what  they  got  at 
Escardes.  .  .  .  Only  you  people  shouldn't  talk 
without  knowing.  .  .  .  All  the  blighters  that 
wrote  their  muck  about  it  in  the  papers,  they'd 
have  done  better  to  keep  their  mouths  shut.  I 
was  there  myself — yes,  and  I  know  how  it  all  hap- 
pened. Well,  we  went  more  than  fifteen  days 
without  touching  our  pay,  from  the  end  of  August. 
Then  after  the  last  hot  time,  they  paid  us  the  lot 
in  one  go:  they  bunged  fifteen  sous  at  every  man 
jack  of  us.  That's  the  mere  truth.  And  so  if  you 
see  any  blighters  that  talk  to  you  about  the  Marne, 
you've  only  got  to  tell  them  one  thing:  that  the 
Marne  was  a  show  that  brought  in  fifteen  sous  to 
the  lads  that  pulled  it  off .   .    .    ." 


Night  falls  speedily  in  November.     With  dark- 
ness came  the  cold,  and  over  there  in  the  trenches 


1 8  Wooden  Crosses 

rifle-fire  had  waked  up  at  the  hour  of  the  owUs 
awakening.  We  had  eaten  our  meal  in  the  stable, 
crouched  and  squatting  on  the  straw,  some  perched 
up  on  the  mangers  with  their  legs  dangling. 

The  old  hands  were  telling  complicated  and 
brutal  stories  with  the  appropriate  "and  so  thens" 
and  "you  remember  nows,"  essential  to  the  due 
ordering  of  a  tale.  But  the  newcomers,  whose 
legs  they  were  trying  to  pull,  whom  they  meant  to 
amaze,  were  no  longer  listening:  they  were  half 
asleep,  with  wandering  eyes  and  drooping  chins. 

''Time  to  go  to  bed,  lads,"  said  Breval,  unlacing 
his  boots.  "These  boys  have  spent  last  night  in 
the  train." 

Everybody  went  to  his  place  with  the  docility 
of  horses  that  knew  their  corner.  Lemoine  hesi- 
tated to  trample  on  the  fine  carpet  of  fresh  straw. 

"That's  not  bad,  .  .  .  wheat  that  hasn't 
been  thrashed.   .    .    ." 

Carefully,  as  he  did  everything,  little  Belin  made 
his  bed  ready.  First  he  spread  out  his  strip  of  tent 
canvas;  then  by  way  of  a  pillow,  he  thrust  his 
satchel  under  the  straw.  To  keep  his  feet  warm, 
he  slipped  them  into  the  sleeves  of  his  vest; 
then  he  rolled  himself  up  into  his  wide  blanket 
folded  in  two,  and  very  neatly,  like  a  fisherman 
casting  his  drag-net,  he  threw  his  overcoat  over 
his  legs.  By  that  time  there  was  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  a  little  patch  of  a  highly  satisfied  face 
through  the  opening  of  the  knitted  mountain- 
helmet.     Belin  had  retired  for  the  night. 


Brothers  in  Arms  19 

Demachy  had  watched  every  move,  but  not 
with  the  same  admiration  as  I  had;  rather  in  dis- 
may. Then  he  looked  at  the  others  getting  ready 
for  the  night,  with  stupor,  a  kind  of  culminating 
terror.  At  the  third  who  started  to  take  off  his 
boots,  he  sat  upright  on  his  little  corner  of  straw. 

"But  you  surely  won't  keep  everything  shut  up 
here!"  he  exclaimed.  ''At  least  you'll  be  leaving 
the  door  open?" 

The  others  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

''No,  indeed;  you  must  be  hot  stuff,"  growled 
Fouillard.  "The  door  open!  Do  you  want  us 
to  perish  of  cold?" 

The  thought  of  sleeping  there,  huddled  on  straw 
with  these  unwashed  fellows,  disgusted  him,  terri- 
fied him.  He  dared  not  say  so,  but  in  a  panic  he 
watched  his  next  neighbour,  Fouillard,  who,  hav- 
ing methodically  and  slowly  unrolled  his  muddy 
puttees,  was  pulling  off  his  heavy  boots. 

"But  it's  really  most  unwholesome,  you  know," 
he  insisted;  "besides,  there's  this  fresh  straw.  It 
ferments.  .  .  .  There  have  been  cases  of  suffo- 
cation, often.   .    .    .     That's  been  known.    .    .    ." 

"Don't  worry  about  suffocation." 

The  others  were  ready  to  sleep,  lying  close  to 
keep  themselves  warm ;  Sulphart  was  trying  to 
reach  his  boot  to  knock  over  the  candle  that  was 
guttering  at  its  last  gasp.  Overwhelmed,  the  new 
chum  said  no  more.  On  his  knees  before  the  man- 
ger, as  though  he  were  praying  to  the  god  of  cattle, 
he  fell  to  hunting  for  a  flask  in  his  satchel. 


20  Wooden  Crosses 

"  'Ware  smash!'*  cried  Sulphart,  and  his  big  shoe 
neatly  thrown,  swept  the  candle  off     to  the  dark. 

"Good-night,  everybody." 

Demachy,  feeling  and  fumbling,  rolled  himself 
up  awkwardly  in  his  blanket,  and  with  his  face 
entrenched  in  his  handkerchief  well  sprinkled  with 
eau-de-Cologne,  he  lay  without  moving. 

The  perfume  quickly  spread  throughout  the 
stable.  First  of  all  Vairon  uttered  his  astonish- 
ment. 

"But  there's  a  smell!    What  on  earth  is  it?" 

"It  stinks  like  a  barber." 

"That's  because  we're  going  to  be  suffocated," 
jeered  Fouillard,  who  had  tumbled  to  what  was 
happening. 

And  turning  over  on  his  left  side,  so  as  not  to 
catch  the  smell,  he  grumbled. 

"He's  got  all  that  goes  to  a  tart,  that  blighter!" 

The  new  chum  made  no  answer.  The  others 
held  their  tongues,  wholly  indifferent.  Near  us 
sleep  was  about  to  spread  his  brooding  wings  over 
everything.  Nevertheless,  in  the  darkness  there 
were  voices  still  running  on. 

"That  makes  fifteen  days  now  that  she  hasn't 
written  to  me,"  confided  Breval  to  a  pal.  "She's 
never  been  so  long  as  that  before.  .  .  .  That 
simply  torments  me,  you  know." 

One  of  the  newcomers  was  questioning  Vairon, 
whose  rich  public-house  voice  I  recognized. 

"When  you  go  into  rest-camp  you're  well 
received,  eh?" 


Brothers  in  Arms  21 

"Oo,  well,  they  don't  prod  us  with  pitchforks, 
anyway;  that's  about  all  there  is  to  it." 

Sulphart,  to  send  himself  to  sleep,  was  softly 
blackguarding  Lemoine,  who  had  promised  to  find 
some  rum  and  had  come  back  empty-handed. 

"You'll  show  me  the  way  to  ferret  out  good 
places,  you  w^th  the  face  fit  to  crush  rice,'*  he  was 
mumbling.  "Talk  about  an  egg,  ...  a 
billiard-ball. 

Sleep  bore  them  away,  one  after  another,  min- 
gling their  breathing,  measured  or  irregular,  the 
even  respiration  of  a  child  and  the  outcries  of 
troubled  dreaming. 

Outside,  the  night  lay  in  wait,  hearkening  to  the 
trenches.  This  evening  they  were  quiet.  You 
could  hear  neither  the  dull,  all-shaking  sound  of 
the  cannon,  nor  the  dry  crackling  of  rifle-fire. 
Only  a  machine  gun  was  firing,  round  after  round, 
without  hate;  you  would  have  said  a  madhouse 
wife  beating  her  carpet.  Round  about  the 
village  lay  the  heavy  silence  that  broods  over  a 
freezing  countryside.  But  suddenly,  on  the  road- 
ways, a  deep  rumbling  awoke,  increased,  thick- 
ened, rolled  towards  us,  and  the  walls  began  to 
shake.   .    .    .     The  service  lorries. 

They  rolled  on  heavily,  with  a  jolting  clamour 
of  ironmongery.  How  I  would  have  liked  to  go 
to  sleep  with  that  familiar  rolling  roar  in  my  ears 
and  in  my  soul!  Not  so  long  ago  the  motor- 
busses  passed  like  that  under  my  windows  and 
held  me  awake,  late,  late  into  the  night.     How  I 


22  Wooden  Crosses 

loathed  them  in  those  days!  And  now,  without 
holding  any  grudge,  they  had  nevertheless  come 
to  see  me  in  my  exile.  As  once  upon  a  time,  they 
made  me  start  and  quiver,  half  asleep  and  half 
awake,  and  I  felt  the  walls  shiver  and  tremble. 
They  were  coming  to  cradle  me  to  sleep. 

"It's  queer,  to-night  there's  no  sound  of  their 
hard  jolting  on  the  pavement,  nor  rattling  win- 
dows, nor  belated  passers-by  calling  them  to  stop. 
Their  noise  is  no  more  than  a  snoring  purr  inside 
my  drowsy  head.  They  grind,  they  bump,  they 
are  gone.   .    .    .     Adieu,  Paris!" 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  THE   SWEAT  OF  THY   BROW 

With  a  great  pile  of  packets  in  front  of  him  like 
a  pedlar's  pack,  the  harassed  quartermaster  was 
calling  out  the  post  in  the  middle  of  a  regular  mob 
of  soldiers,  who  were  all  plying  their  elbows  and 
trampling  on  one  another's  feet.  It  was  just  at 
our  door,  between  the  the  communal  washhouse — 
so  tiny  that  there  would  hardly  have  been  room 
for  three  washerwomen  under  its  sloping  shelter 
roof — and  the  notary's  house,  which  wore  a  red 
scarf  of  Virginia  creeper  crosswise  on  its  front. 
We  had  clambered  up  on  the  stone  seat  and  were 
listening  attentively. 

"Maurice  Duclou,  first  section." 

"Killed  at  Courcy,"  cried  somebody. 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Yes,  his  mates  saw  him  fall  in  front  of  the 
church.  .  .  .  He'd  caught  a  bullet.     Now,   .    . 
well,  I  wasn't  there  myself." 

On  the  comer  of  the  envelope  the  quartermaster 
wrote  in  pencil,  ''Killed.'' 

"Edouard  Marquette." 

"He  must  be  killed  too,"  said  a  voice. 

"You're  a  ninny!"  protested  another.     "The 
23 


24  Wooden  Crosses 

night  they  said  he  was  dropped  he  went  on  a 
water-party  with  me." 

**Then,"  asked  the  quartermaster,  *'he  would 
be  in  hospital?     But  we've  not  had  his  papers." 

**My  idea  is  that  he  was  evacuated  by  another 
regiment." 

"No,  no,  he  was  wounded;  the  Boches  must 
have  collared  him." 

' '  It's  a  great  pity — it's  always  the  ones  that  have 
seen  nothing  have  most  chat." 

Everybody  was  talking  at  once  in  an  uproar  of 
opposing  statements  and  insulting  contradictions. 
The  quartermaster,  hard-pushed  and  in  a  hurry, 
brought  them  into  agreement. 

"I  don't  give  a  curse.  I'll  mark  him  off  'Miss- 
ing.'    Andre  Brunet,  thirteenth  squad." 

"Here  for  him." 

The  others  were  going  on  disputing  in  lowered 
tones;  the  men  in  the  hindmost  ranks  were 
shouting  to  them  to  be  quiet,  and  nobody  could 
hear  anything.  Breval  listened  through  it  all, 
anxiously  listened,  and  when  a  name  sounded  like 
his,  had  it  repeated. 

"Isn't  it  for  me,  this  time?     Corporal  Breval? 

But  it  was  never  for  him,  and  turning  his  poor 
vexed  face  to  us,  he  explained. 

* '  She  writes  so  badly  that  there  might  be  nothing 
queer  about  it,  eh?" 

As  the  heap  lessened  his  lips  tightened.  'WTien 
the  last  one  was  called  out,  he  went  away,  heart 


In  the  Sweat  of  Thy  Brow       25 

and  hands  empty  alike.  Just  as  he  was  going 
indoors  he  turned  to  us. 

"By  the  way,  Demachy,  your  turn  on  fa- 
tigue. You  will  take  a  bag  and  go  to  fetch  the 
rations." 

''What?  The  new  chum  going  for  rations!  .  .  . 
You're  making  game  of  us." 

And  Sulphart,  all  indignant,  left  his  particular 
group  of  pals  to  come  up  to  the  corporal. 

"A  lad  that's  just  come,  who  fancies  that  car- 
rots grow  at  the  fruiterer's,  that's  the  best  ycu 
can  find  to  send  for  the  rations !  Ah,  you're  up 
to  tricks.  ...  If  every  fool  could  swim  you 
wouldn't  need  a  boat  to  cross  the  Seine." 

"If  you  want  to  go  I'm  not  hindering  you," 
replied  Breval  calmly. 

"Sure,  I'll  go,"  shouted  Sulphart.  "I'll  go 
because  I  don't  want  the  squad  to  get  the  same 
food  as  wooden  horses,  and  because  that  lad  looks 
to  me  as  if  he  could  choose  a  bit  of  beef  about  as 
well  as  I  could  say  a  Mass." 

Demachy,  who  ever  since  he  arrived  had  been 
overwhelmed  by  the  cries,  the  noisy  demands,  and 
brutal  gaities  of  the  redhead,  made  an  attempt  to 
rehabilitate  himself. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  assure  you  that  I  shall 
know  what  to  do  very  well.     In  barracks   .    .    . " 

He  was  going  the  wrong  way  about  it.  The 
mere  words  "active  service"  or  "barracks"  was 
enough  to  send  Sulphart  crazy,  inasmuch  as  he  had 
spent  his  three  years  in  stubbornly  defending  the 


26  Wooden  Crosses 

cause  of  right  against  vindictive  Adjutants  and 
officers  of  malevolent  nature,  who  preferably 
sent  good  soldiers  to  sleep  in  the  police  station  the 
night  before  leave.     Anger  choked  him. 

"Barracks!  .  .  .  He  fancies  he's  still  in  bar- 
racks, that  lark-skull  I  He's  just  come  out  of  the 
depot  and  he  would  like  to  put  it  all  over  us  again ! 
.  .  .  Well  then,  get  on  with  it,  go  to  the  dis- 
tribution, see  the  rations;  they'll  have  a  good 
laugh.  The  lads  of  the  squad  are  always  sure  to 
be  in  a  nice  fix  and  no  mistake.  I  don't  care  for 
myself,  /'//  manage  all  right." 

And  to  show  quite  clearly  that  he  was  no  longer 
one  with  a  squad  being  led  to  the  abyss  by  an  in- 
capable corporal,  he  sauntered  off  towards  the 
church,  whistling  a  little  tune  to  himself. 

The  squads  were  being  mustered  when  Gilbert 
came  into  the  courtyard  where  the  quartermaster 
had  had  unloaded,  a  few  paces  from  the  manure 
tank,  the  quarters  of  frozen  meat  which  a  man 
was  now  cutting  up  with  an  axe,  potatoes,  bully- 
beef,  a  burst  sack  from  which  trickled  a  thin 
stream  of  rice,  and  biscuits,  which  the  youngsters 
were  carrying  off  in  their  aprons  to  make  pig's- 
meat  with. 

Stooping  over  the  cask  of  wine,  which  they  were 
tapping  to  make  sure  that  it  was  properly  full, 
those  who  were  waiting  their  turn  were  arguing  as 
to  the  number  of  bidons  that  would  fall  to  each 
squad,  and  some  of  them  were  already  clamouring 
that  that  wasn't  their  proper  figure.     Lentils  were 


In  the  Sweat  of  Thy  Brow       27 

given  out,  sweet  potatoes,  coffee  in  the  berry. 
Taken  by  surprise,  Demachy  remarked : 

"But  we  have  no  coffee-mill." 

The  others  stared  at  him  and  laughed.  Behind 
the  group  someone  bellowed : 

"You  can  go  on  enjoying  yourselves!  That's 
the  lad  they  send  to  get  the  rations  for  a  whole 
squad!" 

It  was  Sulphart,  who  had  come  out  of  ciiriosity, 
just  to  look  on.  Heavily  embarrassed,  his  cap 
full  of  sugar,  his  pockets  stuffed  with  coffee,  his 
bag  weighed  down  full  of  lentils,  Gilbert  was  at 
his  wit's  end,  with  no  notion  where  he  could  put 
his  rice.  As  everybody  was  laughing  round  him, 
and  the  quartermaster  shouting,  "Come  along, 
here's  your  lot ;  don't  you  want  to  have  it  to  eat  ? " 
he  lost  his  head  and  emptied  it  anyivhere  he  could 
— into  his  bag  along  with  the  lentils.  Then 
Sulphart  burst  out : 

"Here,  that's  a  bit  too  much!  .  .  .  You  see 
the  cookie's  phiz  if  he'll  like  sorting  out  his  rice 
and  his  bugs !  .  .  .  Lord,  what  an  army !  And 
they  talk-  about  hoofing  the  Boches  out.  What 
a  joke!  ..." 

Thoroughly  furious,  the  new  chum  turned 
round,  red  all  over. 

'  *  Look  here,  you  shut  up.  All  you  had  to  do  was 
to  come  here  yourself." 

Sulphart,  without  turning  a  hair,  waited  for  the 
remainder  of  the  distribution.  He  watched  the 
corporal  on  duty  throwing  down  great  chunks  of 


28  Wooden  Crosses 

meat,  some  of  an  appetizing  fresh  redness,  others 
thickly  veined  with  tallow,  on  a  muddied  piece  of 
tent  canvas. 

"We're  going  to  draw  lots  for  them,"  said  the 
corporal. 

''No!"  protested  several  squads,  "there  will 
be  some  faking  about  it.  .  .  .  Share  it  out  ac- 
cording to  the  number  of  men." 

"There  are  fourteen  of  us  in  the  second  squad; 
I  want  that  piece." 

"And  what  about  us,  in  the  first  .    .    .  ?" 

All  stooping  over  the  stall,  hands  stretched  out, 
they  were  disputing  in  advance  over  the  food,  all 
shouting  at  once,  under  the  impassive  eye  of  the 
quartermaster. 

"That  will  do  with  your  howling,"  he  said  at 
last.  "I'll  distribute  it.  Third  squad,  .  .  . 
that   piece.     Fourth   squad   .    .    .     Fifth   squad. 

He  had  not  time  to  finish,  nor  to  point  out  the 
piece  intended  with  the  end  of  his  stick.  With  a 
roar  Sulphart  hurled  himself  into  the  group. 

' ' No ! "  he  shouted,  "I'm  not  having  any.  .  .  . 
You  want  us  all  in  the  squad  to  die  of  hunger. 
They're  taking  advantage  of  its  being  a  lad  that 
isn't  up  to  snuff  to  do  us  in  the  eye." 

The  others  hooted  him,  the  quartermaster 
would  fain  have  driven  him  away,  but  clean  be- 
yond aU  restraint,  wildly  waving  his  arms,  he 
shouted  louder  than  them  all. 

"I  won't  have  that  piece  at  all.   .    .    .     1*11 


In  the  Sweat  of  Thy  Brow       29 

tell  the  Captain,  and  I'll  tell  the  Colonel  too,  if  I 
have  to.  .  .  .  It's  always  the  same  lot  that  get 
the  best.  ...  I  want  my  proper  share.  .  .  . 
The  fifth  squad  is  the  one  with  the  most  men  in 
it.  .  .  ." 

''There  are  only  eleven  of  you." 

"That's  a  lie!  .  .  .  We'll  make  a  complaint. 
.  .  .     That's  nothing  but  bone!" 

He  was  uttering  cry  upon  cry,  now  shrill,  now 
hoarse,  now  terrifying  and  now  plaintive,  thrust- 
ing one  back  and  jostling  others  over.  Those 
who  had  already  been  served  were  hugging  their 
share  to  their  hearts,  as  the  mothers  of  Bethlehem 
must  have  held  their  babes  on  the  night  of  Herod's 
slaughter.  By  good  luck  the  quartermaster  held 
out  a  chunk  to  him,  taken  at  random,  and  at  once 
he  shut  up  completely,  his  calm  recovered  immedi- 
ately, his  anger  all  harmless  and  disarmed  since 
he  was  served.  He  turned  then  to  Demachy, 
while  the  distribution  went  on . 

**You  see,"  he  said  with  a  friendly  air,  "you've 
got  the  idea  all  right,  but  you  don't  give  tongue 
enough.  If  you  want  to  be  better  served  than  the 
others  you've  got  to  give  tongue,  even  without 
knowing  anything  about  anything:  that's  the  only 
way  to  have  your  rights." 

Gilbert  Demachy  listened  without  any  answer, 
amused  by  this  big  brawler  with  his  bristle  beard ; 
his  attentive  silence  pleased  Sulphart. 
.    *'0f  course  that  blockhead  of  a  Br6val  never 
told  you  to  fetch  the  bucket  or  the  bottles  for  the 


30  Wooden  Crosses 

pinard.  What  do  you  think  you're  going  to  carry 
it  back  in — in  your  boots?  Good  joy  I  thought 
something  about  it.  There's  a  bucket,  and  I 
brought  a  can  in  case  there  might  be  brandy.  .  .  . 
It's  no  matter,  a  corporal  that  doesn't  go  himself 
to  the  distribution;  you  only  see  that  with  the 
fifth.  .  .  .  He  stayed  behind  once  more  writing 
to  his  old  woman.   .    .    .     Blitherer!" 

Sulphart  did  not  deign  to  have  any  truck  with 
the  distribution  of  tins  of  bully-beef,  a  commodity 
for  which  he  had  nothing  but  contempt;  but  all 
the  same  he  cried,  "There's  one  short!"  just  to 
show  that  he  was  still  on  the  spot. 

"Now  for  the  wine,"  said  the  quartermaster. 

Sulphart  dashed  forward  first  of  all,  and  as  long 
as  the  distribution  lasted  he  never  raised  his  head; 
while  a  bucket  was  filling  he  groaned  and  moaned 
and  uttered  little  cries  of  anguish,  as  if  it  was  his 
heart's  blood  that  was  being  run  off. 

"That'll  do!  .  .  .  That'll  do!"  he  cried.  "It 
holds  more  than  the  proper  measure.  .   .   .     Thief!" 

But  the  others,  who  were  accustomed  to  it  all, 
endured  the  insults  and  kept  the  wine.  His  turn 
came  at  length,  and  he  got  his  bucket  filled  up  to 
the  very  brim,  swearing  that  six  new  chums  had 
turned  up,  that  the  corporal  was  going  to  lodge  a 
complaint,  that  they  had  already  been  curtailed 
the  day  before,  that  the  Captain.   ... 

"Here,  and  bung  off,"  said  the  exasperated 
quartermaster,  pouring  out  a  last  quarter  of  a  litre 
for  him.     ' '  Lord,  what  a  life ! ' ' 


In  the  Sweat  of  Thy  Brow       3^ 

Highly  pleased  with  himself,  Sulphart  went 
back  like  a  conqueror,  his  bucket  in  one  hand  and 
his  bag  on  his  shoulder.  They  passed  through 
the  village,  where  the  idle  soldiers  were  roaming 
in  quest  of  a  pub,  and  on  the  way  he  tried  to  in- 
culcate into  the  new  chum  the  first  principles  of 
ctmning  and  trickery  essential  for  a  soldier  on 
campaign. 

** Every  man  for  himself,  you  know.  I'd  far 
rather  drink  other  people's  drink  than  have  the 
others  drinking  mine.  .  .  .  It  always  is  the  modest 
folk  that  lose  out." 

Halting  in  a  spot  where  nobody  was  passing, 
he  dipped  his  drinking-cup  in  the  bucket  and 
offered  it  to  Gilbert. 

**Here,"  he  said,  "drink  that,  you've  a  right  to 
it." 

He  had,  in  a  word,  drawn  up  in  his  own  mind,  and 
for  his  own  sole  personal  guidance,  a  little  treatise 
on  the  rights  and  duties  of  the  soldier,  in  which  it 
was  fully  and  frankly  conceded  that  the  man  on 
ration  fatigue  had  a  right  to  a  cup  of  wine  as  a 
perquisite.  He  drank  one  too,  since  he  was  help- 
ing the  man  on  duty,  and  started  off  again  by  so 
much  the  lighter.  As  they  walked,  he  told  Gil- 
bert stories,  talking  in  the  same  breath  of  his  wife, 
who  was  a  dressmaker ;  of  the  battle  of  Guise ;  the 
factory  where  he  had  worked  in  Paris,  and  of  Mo- 
rache,  the  Adjutant,  a  re-enlisted  man,  our  special 
horror.  When  they  reached  cantonments  he  put 
down  the  bucket,  taking  oath  that  he  had  never 


32  Wooden  Crosses 

so  much  as  tasted  the  wine,  and  offering  to  prove  it 
by  letting  anybody  smell  his  breath;  then  he  went 
to  Demachy  again,  having  taken  a  fancy  to  him. 

"If  I'd  had  the  dibs  like  you,"  he  said,  "and 
had  your  education,  I  swear  they  wouldn't  have 
seen  me  coming  into  the  fire  like  this.  I'd  have 
put  in  for  the  officers'  course,  and  I'd  have  gone 
and  spent  some  months  in  camp,  and  then  they'd 
have  listed  me  sub-lieutenant  in  the  middle  of 
191 5.  And  by  that  the  war '11  be  over.  .  .  . 
What  I  say  is,  that  you  didn't  know  how  to  swim." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  RED  PENNON 

From  break  of  day  the  regiment  was  measuring 
out  the  road  with  its  long  blue  ribbon.  There  was 
a  thick  sound  of  tramping,  voices,  and  laughter 
moving  forward  in  the  midst  of  the  dust.  Untir- 
ingly the  comrades,  elbow  to  elbow,  told  one  an- 
other those  hackneyed  tales  of  the  regiment, 
every  one  like  every  other  one,  that  you  might 
imagine  took  place  all  in  the  same  barracks.  They 
wrangled  with  one  another  from  rank  to  rank; 
head  thrown  back,  they  emptied  the  bidons  filled 
at  the  halting-place;  and  as  they  passed,  they 
challenged  the  road  labourer  by  the  roadside,  the 
peasant  in  his  vineyard,  the  woman  coming  back 
from  the  field.   Now  and  then  they  met  a  gendarme. 

"Hi,  lad,  .  .  .  that's  not  the  way  to  the 
trenches." 

Nobody  gave  a  thought  to  the  war.  Ever3^hing 
breathed  devil-may-caredom  and  gaiety.  It  was 
not  too  hot,  the  country  was  bright,  and  they 
looked  at  things  with  the  amused  eyes  of  soldiers 
on  manoeuvres.   .    .    . 

Bouffioux'  shining  face  carried  black  lines,  the 
mark  of  his  fingers  and  the  rills  of  sweat  running 

3  33 


34  Wooden  Crosses 

down  from  his  cap.  He  had  placed  himself  along- 
side Hamel  to  talk  about  Havre.  They  were 
chumming  up  over  the  names  of  streets  and  pubs, 
and  for  the  hundredth  time  they  were  astounded 
not  to  have  known  each  other  as  civilians. 

''And  yet  you  have  a  big  fat  face  that  nobody 
could  miss,"  repeated  Hamel  every  time. 

Stoutly  built,  he  marched  with  wide  strides; 
fat  Bouffioux,  on  the  contrary,  went  with  little 
tripping,  hurrying  steps,  and  Fouillard,  who  was 
marching  next  behind  him,  with  his  dirty  necker- 
chief knotted  around  his  neck,  never  stopped 
grumbling. 

**Will  you  walk  straight,  you  fat  beast!  If 
only  he'd  take  my  mess-pot!  .  .  .  Why  don't 
you  ever  carry  it,  anyway?  .  .  .  You  don't 
mind  a  bit  having  a  feed.  ...  If  it  was  only  a 
scrap  of  wood  he  wouldn't  carry  it,  no  fear,  that 
pig!  .  .  .  You'll  be  coming  looking  for  soup 
to-night  out  of  it.   .    .    .     We'll  see  about  it.  .  .  ." 

The  comfortable  tallow  of  the  horse-dealer  was 
one  of  his  special  hates ;  Bouffioux  was  fat  and  he 
was  thin ;  was  well  off,  and  he  a  poor  man ;  stayed 
in  the  rear  while  he  went  up  into  the  trenches. 

"No  great  wonder  he  has  a  face  like  a  behind, 
with  all  he  stuffs  into  him.  .  .  .  The  boys 
don't  often  get  a  taste  of  his  parcels.  He  takes 
advantage  of  our  being  in  the  trenches  to  wire 
into  it  all  by  his  lonesome.  But  that  won't  go  on 
for  ever;  he's  been  playing  Cuthbert  long  enough 
now,  he'll  have  to  go  up  to  the  trenches." 


The  Red  Pennon  35 

Bouffioux  allowed  the  insults  to  pass,  but  he 
never  went  to  the  trenches.  Since  the  war  started, 
he  had  plied  every  trade ;  there  was  only  one  that 
really  went  against  his  grain — ours.  He  was  ready 
for  any  mortal  thing  so  as  not  to  get  into  the 
trenches.  He  had  only  once  been  fighting,  at 
Charleroi,  and  he  had  retained  such  a  terror  of  it 
that  now  he  had  one  idea  and  only  one — to  get 
out  of  it.  He  succeeded  by  dint  of  as  many  tricks 
as  he  used  to  employ  in  old  days  at  the  fair  to  sell 
a  miangy  horse.  Every  twist  and  turn,  he  liad 
worn  them  all  out.  He  had  gone  through  the  re- 
treat as  cyclist  to  the  paymaster,  just  knowing 
enough  to  stick  on  the  saddle,  and  constantly 
running  on  the  flank  of  the  column,  shoving  his 
puncttired  bicycle  by  hand.  He  had  won  the 
victory  of  the  Marne  as  telephone  operator  to  the 
brigade.  Since  that  he  had  been  known  as  wood- 
cutter, under-baggage-master,  armourer,  army  ser- 
vice corps,  cobbler.  He  volunteered  for  every 
sort  of  job,  in  the  most  barefaced  way,  and  clung 
to  the  place  he  had  usurped  until  he  was  hunted 
out  of  it.  Did  anybody  want  a  secretary  that 
only  just  knew  how  to  read,  a  carpenter  that  had 
never  had  a  plane  in  his  hand,  a  tailor  that  couldn't 
sew,  he  was  on  the  spot.  If  a  chaplain  for  the 
division  had  been  called  for,  he  would  have 
shouted,  "Here!"  He  was  determined  not  to 
fight,  that  was  the  whole  thing,  and  fear  taught 
him  every  kind  of  boldness.  At  the  present  mo- 
ment he  was  standing  drinks  to  all  the  corporals  of 


36  Wooden  Crosses 

the  supply  train,  and  sharing  his  parcels  with  the 
sergeant  muleteer  of  the  machine  guns,  who 
promised  to  get  him  attached  to  the  reserve  troops. 
But  the  Captain  would  not  allow  him  to  leave  the 
company,  and  Bouffioux  bowed  a  brooding  neck 
beneath  the  threats  of  Fouillard. 

''Why  should  you  be  any  more  than  the  others, 
you  big  lump!     You're  going  in,  I  tell  you.   .    .    ." 

Fouillard,  very  proud  of  having  been  through 
Mont mir ail  on  all  fours  in  a  ditch,  and  very  uppish 
over  his  title  of  old  soldier,  equally  hated  De- 
machy,  who  had  too  much  money  and  the  ways  of 
a  toff.  So  when  he  was  tired  of  insulting  the  placid 
back  of  Bouffioux,  he  looked  at  the  new  chum,  and 
the  thick  wrinkle  of  grease  that  cut  across  his 
cheek  hollowed  itself  in  a  smile. 

''Twig  him,  if  he's  not  in  a  lather  all  right,*'  he 
grinned. 

Gilbert  was  marching  with  straining  neck,  his 
thumbs  passed  under  the  straps,  his  feet  dragging. 
From  halt  to  halt  his  pack  was  getting  heavier.  And 
yet  he  had  buckled  it  on  gaily  at  the  start.  He 
had  felt  a  kind  of  sporting  sprightliness  under 
this  well-stowed  burden.  Supple  and  limber  at 
the  knees,  he  would  have  liked  to  sing,  to  start  off 
at  the  quick  step,  with  the  fifes  and  drums  in  front. 

But  at  the  end  of  an  hour  the  pack  had  already 
grown  heavy.  Instead  of  pushing  him  forward 
like  at  the  start,  it  was  turning  into  a  dead  weight, 
and  seemed  to  be  holding  him,  to  be  plucking  him 
back  by  the  two  straps.     He  jerked  his  burden 


The  Red  Pennon  37 

back  into  place  with  a  twist  of  his  shoulder  every 
hundred  paces  or  so,  but  it  soon  slipped  back  again, 
heavier  than  ever.  His  bruised  foot  had  broken 
out  again,  his  knees  had  dried  up  and  seized,  and 
now  that  leaden  pack  was  playing  with  him,  mak- 
ing him  stagger  like  a  drunken  man.  For  the  first 
time  he  was  heard  swearing,  using  beastly  lan- 
guage, in  a  little  furious  voice  that  he  didn't  recog- 
nize. Chest  thrust  forward,  labouring  as  if  he  had 
had  to  haul  the  road  along,  he  panted  under  his 
slave-collar : 

"I'll  chuck  the  blasted  lot  in  the  air  at  the  next 
halt,  and  their  filthy  biscuits.    .    .    ." 

At  every  halt  he  made  an  inventory  of  every- 
thing out  on  the  bank,  and  lightened  himself  of 
something — bottles  of  drugs,  a  portable  filter,  a 
box  of  powdered  beef,  a  pile  of  strange,  ridiculous 
objects  that  his  comrades  fought  for  like  savages 
without  knowing  very  clearly  what  they  would  do 
with  them.  Sulphart  meanwhile  was  carrying 
half  his  load  for  him,  his  water-bottle,  his  white 
satchel  full  to  bursting,  and  when  the  day's  march 
was  nearing  its  end,  he  even  took  his  rifle,  the  strap 
of  which  was  sawing  into  his  shoulder.  But  the 
Httle  he  still  had  to  carry  was  still  too  heavy,  and 
at  every  halt  he  felt  he  would  go  no  farther.  When 
the  whistles  sent  them  to  their  kits  he  would  fain 
not  have  heard,  or  that  they  might  have  compas- 
sion on  him  and  leave  him  there  for  an  hour,  by 
himself,  to  let  his  skin  heal  over  and  the  fever  of 
his  throbbing  temples  abate.     Nevertheless,  he  al- 


38  Wooden  Crosses 

ways  stood  up  like  the  others  and  set  off  again, 
Hmping,  more  stiff  and  numb  than  ever,  a  pang  at 
every  step.  The  Hghtened  pack  was  no  less  heavy, 
and  the  unheeding,  unconscious  milestones  added 
incessantly  fresh  kilometres  to  the  already  long 
day's  march. 

Little  by  little  the  noise  of  the  marching  troop 
died  down.  They  were  feeling  fatigue.  **A  halt! 
a  halt ! "  one  or  another  would  call  out,  hiding  him- 
self as  he  did  so.  Footsore  men  were  falling  out 
and  taking  off  their  boots,  seated  at  the  foot  of  the 
bank.  On  the  edge  of  the  road  Barbaroux  the 
doctor,  with  his  four  stripes,  was  giving  a  consulta- 
tion, holding  in  with  reins  and  knees  his  horse 
that  pawed  the  ground.  Before  him,  all  awk- 
ward and  embarrassed,  a  man  was  standing  at 
attention. 

"Hold  your  tongue!"  yelled  the  doctor,  the 
veins  on  his  temples  standing  out.  ''You  will 
march  like  the  rest.  .  .  .  I'm  your  Commanding 
Officer,  d'ye  hear?  your  Commanding  Officer! 
What  is  it  you  owe  me?" 

The  poor  stupefied  foot-slogger  stared  at  him. 

"You  owe  me  respect,"  bellowed  Barbaroux, 
jumping  in  his  saddle,  "Stand  up  straight.  .  .  . 
Hold  your  hand  out.  .  .  .  Naturally  his  hand 
shakes.  .  .  .  All  alcoholics,  and  sons  of  alco- 
hoHcs.  .  .  Well,  you  be  off  now;  the  others  are 
marching  and  you'll  march  too.  .  .  .  And  don't 
let  me  see  you  straggling  behind,  or  look  out  for 
the  sawbones." 


The  Red  Pennon  39 

At  the  halt  the  men  took  their  ease  lying 
stretched  at  full-length  behind  a  line  of  piled  arms. 
The  newcomers,  less  hardened  of  body,  now  didn't 
even  unbuckle  their  packs ;  they  lay  on  their  backs, 
their  kit  pulled  up  under  their  heads  like  a  hard 
pillow,  and  felt  their  weariness  shivering  through 
their  tortured  legs. 

"Packs  up!" 

Off  they  went  again,  limping  along.  They  were 
not  laughing  now,  and  they  talked  much  less 
loudly.  The  regiment  that  just  now  filled  the 
whole  dusty  road  up  to  the  crest  of  the  ridge  last 
itself  in  a  light  steamy  haze.  Soon  the  head  of 
the  battalion  could  be  discerned  no  longer;  then 
the  company  itself  wavered  through  the  mist. 
Nightfall  was  at  hand,  they  were  entering  the 
realms  of  dream.  The  villages  were  at  rest,  their 
day  over,  and  their  rustic  incense  of  burning  wood 
rose  from  their  steep  and  pointed  roofs. 

In  September  there  had  been  fighting  in  this 
district,  and  all  along  the  road  stood  crosses  lined 
up  at  attention  to  see  us  march  past. 

Near  a  stream  there  was  grouped  a  whole 
cemetery;  from  each  cross  flickered  a  little  flag, 
those  children's  flags  that  are  bought  in  the 
bazaars;  and  all  these  little  flying  flapping  flags 
gave  that  field  of  the  dead  the  gay  look  of  a  naval 
squadron  all  dressed  for  a  f^te. 

Along  beside  the  ditches  ranged  their  line,  casual 
poor  crosses,  made  with  two  bits  of  board  or  two 
sticks  fixed  crosswise.     Sometimes  a  whole  section 


40  Wooden  Crosses 

of  dead  men  with  never  a  name,  and  one  single 
cross  to  hold  them  in  its  keeping.  *' French  sol- 
diers slain  on  the  field  of  honour,"  spelled  out  the 
regiment.  Round  the  farms,  in  the  middle  of 
fields,  they  were  everywhere  to  be  seen;  a  whole 
regiment  must  have  fallen  in  that  place.  From 
the  top  of  the  still  green  slope  they  watched  us 
pass,  and  one  might  have  fancied  that  their  crosses 
leaned  over  to  choose  from  out  our  ranks  those 
who  must  join  them  on  the  morrow. 

And  for  all  that  they  were  neither  sad  nor 
gloomy,  those  first  tombs  of  the  war.  Ranged  in 
green,  rich  gardens,  framed  in  foliage  and  crowned 
with  ivy,  they  still  assumed  the  air  of  bowers  to 
reassure  the  boys  that  were  going  off  to  fight. 
Then,  apart, "in  a  naked  field,  a  black  cross,  all  by 
itself,  with  a  grey  cap  atop. 

"A  Boche!"  cried  someone. 

And  all  the  newcomers  jostled  to  have  a  look;  it 
was  the  first  they  had  seen. 


In  a  dull,  confused  rumbHng  of  half-stified 
voices,  clinking  metal,  and  foundered  feet,  the 
company  entered  the  village,  all  drowned  in  dark- 
ness and  shadow.  Not  far  away  the  rockets  were 
cleaving  the  night  with  the  brightness  of  a  city 
street,  and  every  now  and  then  it  was  enlivened 
with  red  Hghts  or  green  lights,  swiftly  quenched, 
for  all  the  world  like  luminous  signs. 

This  wartime  sky  made  one  think  of  a  holiday 


The  Red  Pennon  41 

night  of  the  fourteenth  of  July.  There  was  noth- 
ing tragic.     Only  the  immense  silence. 

In  the  middle  of  the  main  street,  a  burning  farm 
cast  over  the  dismantled  roofs  a  brutal  red,  like 
the  flares  of  a  country  fair,  and  one  was  quite  sur- 
prised not  to  hear  the  steam-organs  going.  Rab- 
bits on  fire  dashed  through  the  ranks,  like  little 
living  torches.  Then,  between  two  walls  on  the 
point  of  crumbling  in,  there  could  be  seen,  running 
through  the  red  haze  of  the  confla<yration,  mute 
shadows  carrying  buckets. 

"Hurry  on!  hurry  on!"  repeated  the  officers; 
"they  will  be  firing  again." 

One  fallen  against  the  other,  the  wounded  houses 
mingled  their  ruins,  and  men  went  stumbling  over 
the  scattered  rubble.  From  time  to  time  a  front 
fallen  out  complete  blocked  up  the  street.  They 
cursed  their  way  over  this  mass  of  stonework,  and 
the  dislocated  company  formed  up  again  at  the 
double. 

Where  the  village  and  the  country  joined,  a 
small  boy  who  could  hardly  be  seen  in  the  darkness 
was  looking  for  the  remains  of  who  knows  what 
among  the  ruins  of  his  home.  He  raised  his  head, 
watched  us  pass  without  a  word,  and  gravely 
saluted  the  officer,  his  little  plaster-white  paw 
lifted  to  his  mop  of  hair. 

"Young  blighter!"  growled  Sulphart.  "What 
are  they  up  to  out  of  doors  just  at  the  moment  of 
a  relief,  these  little  lice?  .  .  .  We  mustn't  ask 
that.   .    .    .     And  throw  an  eye  on  all  these  lights 


42  Wooden  Crosses 

signalling.  You  may  be  sure  the  Bodies  know 
we're  here.'* 

An  old  woman  passed  from  one  yard  to  the 
other,  hiding  a  lantern  under  her  apron,  both  to 
cover  the  light  and  to  shelter  it  from  the  wind. 
You  might  have  fancied  she  carried  a  star  in  her 
bosom. 

"There's  another  one.  ...  Hi!  old  woman 
.    .    .   that  lantern !"  shouted  Sulphart. 

Maroux,  who  called  himself  a  poacher,  groused 
with  him;  he  saw  spies  everywhere,  did  Maroux. 
The  smallest  glimmer  of  a  light  seemed  to  him 
suspicious,  and  he  imagined  heaven  knows  what 
mysterious  and  complicated  code  of  night  signals 
between  peasants  lighting  their  candles  and  the 
enemy  headquarters. 

Harassed  and  thrusting  out  his  neck  like  a  horse 
going  uphill,  Demachy  followed  the  poacher. 
When  the  file  halted,  he  would  knock  up  against  his 
pack  and  wait  in  a  dull  stupor  till  they  went  on 
again.  Even  his  fatigue  had  vanished;  he  was  a 
thing  extenuate,  without  will  or  volition,  a  thing 
to  be  pushed  on.  His  eyes  turned  towards  the 
front  line,  he  was  all  the  while  trying  to  see  the 
rockets  through  the  gaps  between  two  walls.  It 
was  a  disillusion  for  him,  this  first  glimpse  of  the 
war.  He  would  fain  have  been  deeply  moved, 
have  experienced  something,  and  he  kept  his  eyes 
stubbornly  fixed  in  the  direction  of  the  trenches, 
to  give  himself  an  emotion,  to  win  a  little  thrill. 

But  he  kept  repeating  to  himself,  ''This  is  war. 


The  Red  Pennon  43 

...  I  am  seeing  war,"  without  managing  to 
rouse  any  emotion.  He  felt  nothing  at  all,  except 
perhaps  a  little  surprise.  It  all  seemed  to  him 
queer  and  out  of  place,  that  electric  fairydom  in 
the  midst  of  the  dumb  and  quiet  fields.  The  few 
rifle  shots  that  cracked  out  had  an  inoffensive  air. 
Even  this  devastated  village  did  not  upset  his 
calm:  it  was  too  much  like  a  stage  scene,  .  .  . 
too  much  the  kind  of  thing  you  could  imagine  to 
yourself.  It  would  have  needed  cries,  tumult,  a 
burst  of  firing,  to  animate  it  all,  to  give  a  spirit  to 
things;  but  this  night,  this  huge  silence,  this  was 
never  war. 

And  yet,  indeed,  it  was;  a  harsh  and  gloomy 
vigil  rather  than  a  battle. 

The  street  came  abruptly  to  an  end,  cut  short 
by  a  barricade  made  of  barrows  and  casks.  This 
had  to  be  traversed  man  by  man,  gliding  under  a 
plough-beam  that  caught  up  the  kit  on  their  backs. 

"Silence!  .  .  .  Fall  in  again  in  the  field  to 
the  left." 

The  motionless  group  of  soldiers  made  in  the 
darkness  a  kind  of  black  vineyard  with  all  the 
rifles  held  upright.  Only  there  was  the  red  top  of 
one  solitary  cigarette  piercing  the  night.  It  could 
be  seen  rising  to  the  lips,  glow  up,  then  slowly  sink 
again. 

"Eh!  that  other  filthy  ruffian  who's  going  to 
have  us  all  marked  down,"  grumbled  somebody. 
.  .  .  "They'd  get  their  mates  killed  for  a  fag, 
those  swine!" 


44  Wooden  Crosses 

Gilbert  had  unbuckled  his  pack  and  lain  down. 
The  earth  in  the  fields  was  flabby  and  cold,  still 
moist  with  the  late  rains,  and  that  froze  his  legs 
through  the  thin  overcoat.  Pack  under  head,  his 
hands  sHpped  into  his  sleeves,  he  rested,  filHng  his 
eyes  with  the  sky.  The  pressure  of  the  two  straps 
was  now  burning  his  shoulders  with  a  first-class 
blister,  and  his  weariness  ran  down  through  all 
his  relaxed  limbs. 

In  the  village,  on  the  other  side  of  the  barricade, 
a  company  which  had  piled  arms  was  jostling  it- 
self over  its  rations.  You  could  hear  orders,  dis- 
putes, a  whole  uproar  like  a  market-day.  An 
indignant  voice  was  crying  out : 

"They  must  be  drunk!  ...  In  our  squad 
we've  had  three  lots  of  sugar  and  nothing  to 
eat.    ..." 

Others  called  to  each  other:  "This  way  the 
water  party.    .    .    .     Heads  of  squads  for  wine. " 

Next  it  was  the  machine  gunners  giving  tongue, 
their  mules  caught  in  the  hurly-burly.  An  officer 
was  shouting  to  quiet  things  down.  "Silence! 
less  row,  for  the  love  of  God!"  All  this  clam- 
our woke  Gilbert,  benumbed.  He  sat  up  on  his 
elbows. 

"Are  the  Boches  still  far  from  here?"  he  asked. 

"No,  the  other  side  of  the  road,"  replied  Sul- 
phart,  lying  close  by  him  in  the  damp  grass. 
"You'll  see  that,  by  dint  of  hearing  this  tow-row, 
the  Boches  will  start  firing  into  the  thick  of  it. 
I'd  give  twenty  sous  to  see  all  these  blankers  get- 


The  Red  Pennon  45 

ting  themselves  well  hammered.  .  .  .  Just  listen 
to  them  letting  loose!" 

He  himself  was  not  shouting  now.  His  big, 
rowdy  voice  was  prudently  lowered;  he  had  even 
put  away  his  pipe,  and  was  going  forward  with  his 
back  bent,  and  uneasy.  These  precautions  amazed 
Gilbert. 

"There's  no  danger  here?"  he  asked. 

"No,  on  the  contrary;  you  listen." 

Little  tuneful  whistling  crossed  the  night,  pro- 
longed and  dying  away  like  a  plucked  guitar. 

* '  You  hear  that  ?     Those  are  bullets. ' ' 

Gilbert  Hstened,  amused.  It  gave  him  pleasure 
to  find  that  a  bullet  had  this  pretty,  wasp-like 
sound.  And  it  never  even  entered  his  head  that 
that  might  be  death.  At  an  order  sent  along  in 
low  tones  from  mouth  to  mouth,  the  company 
dressed,  with  a  long  clattering  of  arms. 

"In  line  at  five  paces.  .  .  .  Rifle  in  hand, 
...   no  noise." 

In  the  long  zigzagging  file,  the  troop  dropped 
to  the  main  road,  whose  line  of  trees  could  be  seen 
standing  out  lower  down .  Communication  trenches 
had  not  yet  been  dug  to  lead  them  down  to  it. 

Beet  with  its  tall  tops,  and  the  weeds  and  grass 
of  the  fallow  fields,  soaked  our  legs  up  to  the  knee, 
and  wreathed  wisps  found  our  heavy  feet.  It  was 
impossible  to  see  anything.  The  world  came  to  an 
end  a  few  paces  away,  black  earth  and  darkened 
sky  melting  together.  Scarcely  could  you  divine 
the  bent  profile  of  your  nearest  fellows.     Now  and 


4^  Wooden  Crosses 

then  a  man  would  stumble  and  fall  full-length, 
with  a  hideous  clanging  of  mess-tin,  drinking-cup, 
and  water-bottle.  Then  would  stifled  laughter 
run  tittering  down  the  line. 

Suddenly  Gilbert  heard,  as  it  might  be,  a  swift 
sigh  that  came  swelling  up,  and  on  the  very  in- 
stant he  saw  the  long  file  of  men  go  down  with  one 
single  movement.  He  followed  suit.  A  blaze  of 
lightning  burst  forth  with  a  dreadful  shattering 
noise  of  copper  and  iron.  The  shards  came  lash- 
ing at  the  ground,  shrieking  viciously,  and  the  acrid 
fumes  subsided.  Gilbert,  rising  on  his  knees,  his 
heart  dancing,  drank  in  a  big  lungful  of  his  first  shell. 

''That  smells  good,"  he  thought. 

Already  the  others  were  on  their  feet  and  start- 
ing off  quicker  than  ever,  nearly  running.  Tossing 
back  the  bidon  that  was  knocking  against  his 
thighs,  he  followed  Lemoine,  who  was  dragging 
along  a  wretched  dog  at  the  end  of  a  rope,  propping 
itself  back  on  all  its  four  stiff  legs. 

"Halt!"  was  passed  down  by  lowered  voices. 

The  trench  was  dug  just  along  this  side  of  the 
road.  Three  lines  of  wire  protected  it,  like  the 
greensward  of  a  city  square.  Under  our  very  feet 
were  murmuring,  invisible  soldiers,  hoisting  their 
packs  on  to  their  shoulders. 

"They  haven't  done  much  bursting  themselves 
to  bring  the  relief,"  they  were  grousing.  "For 
sure  we'll  play  their  dirty  trick  back  on  them." 

And  with  this  welcome,  the  boys  went  off. 


The  Red  Pennon  47 

A  nice  pallid  sunshine,  proper  for  Saint  Martin. 
Over  the  soft  pale  blue  of  the  sky  the  clouds  were 
like  wisps  of  shrapnel.  A  kestrel  and  a  raven  were 
pursuing  one  another  savagely  with  hammering 
beaks.  A  lark  was  heard  singing,  ever  in  the  same 
place,  hardly  moving  at  all.     It  was  Sunday. 

Over  the  sandbags  the  German  trenches  could 
be  made  out,  two  slender  lines,  one  of  them  of 
brown  earth,  the  other  white  marl.  The  devasted 
fields  looked  like  mere  waste  land,  with  their  ricks 
and  ruin  and  their  tossed  and  scattered  sheaves. 
By  the  edge  of  a  roadway  an  abandoned  mowing- 
machine  held  up  its  long  workless  arms,  idle  and 
derelict. 

The  trench  was  loafing.  Men  sauntered  about 
the  communication  trenches  as  in  the  streets  of  a 
little  town,  every  nook  and  corner  of  which  is 
familiar,  and  gossiped  at  the  entry  of  the  dug-outs. 

Under  their  shelters  the  boys  were  doing  odd 
jobs.  Little  Belin  was  getting  his  fixed  up  to  his 
Hking,  cutting  one  hole  for  his  candle,  a  second 
for  his  drinking-cup,  and  another,  a  bigger  one,  to 
slide  his  feet  into.  Breval  was  writing  to  his  wife, 
and  Broucke  was  sleeping,  the  only  pleasure  he  had 
between  grub  and  grub. 

Fouillard  was  squatted  down  finishing  a  tin  of 
bully-beef,  administering  it  to  himself  in  great 
mouthfuls  between  his  dirty  knife  and  his  earthy 
thimib.  Gilbert  looked  askance  at  him.  He 
could  not  like  that  sickly,  dirty  creature;  every- 
thing disgusted  him — his  voice,  his  pink  eyes,  and 


4^  Wooden  Crosses 

down  to  his  eternal  woollen  scarf,  with  its  filthy 
tassels  hanging  from  it.  They  were  both  lying 
in  the  same  hole,  crammed  together,  side  against 
side,  and  it  was  most  of  all  for  this  that  he  exe- 
crated him. 

All  the  same,  the  new  chum  had  broken  in 
speedily  enough  to  our  brutal  life.  He  now  knew 
how  to  wash  his  plate  with  a  fistful  of  grass,  he  was 
beginning  to  drink  our  coarse  wine  with  enjoy- 
ment, and  was  not  ashamed  now  to  relieve  himself 
in  public. 

"You're  coming  on,  you're  coming  on  my  boy!" 
Breval  would  declare  with  satisfaction. 

Wallowing  on  the  rotting  straw  in  his  niche, 
Sulphart  was  drowsing  away,  letting  only  a  slender 
shaft  of  light  trickle  into  his  half -shut  eyes.  He 
pulled  and  puffed  lazily  at  his  pipe  with  the  well- 
chewed  stem,  and  day-dreamed  of  Saint  Romain's 
fair,  with  its  balls,  its  circuses,  its  lotteries,  its 
shooting-galleries — a  whole  cycle  of  explosive  de- 
lights, all  scented  with  frying  and  coarse  wines. 

Not  having  a  watch  to  keep,  they  stretched 
themselves  out  one  after  another,  wearied  with  the 
long  night  spent  in  carting  corrugated  iron. 
Vairon  was  growling  in  a  doze,  for  Lemoine's  snor- 
ing would  not  let  him  sleep.  Those  who  had  no 
den  to  doze  in  had  lain  down  in  the  trench  itself, 
wrapped  round  in  their  blankets.  In  a  hole, 
scolding  voices  of  card-players;  all  the  others  were 
deep  in  slumber. 

Suddenly,  sharply,  a  gust  of  explosions  shook 


The  Red  Pennon  49 

them  awake.  There  was  a  moment  of  panic. 
They  rose,  came  out  of  their  holes,  jostled  one 
another  to  get  their  rifles,  all  at  once  crazed  by  the 
deafening  thunder  of  the  artillery  suddenly  let 
loose. 

At  the  same  signal,  down  the  whole  of  the  line 
our  own  guns  set  to  work,  and  in  this  rending  hub- 
bub you  could  no  longer  even  hear  the  shells  cleav- 
ing through  the  air.  We  had  hurled  ourselves  to 
the  loopholes,  already  dipping  into  our  cartridge- 
pouches. 

At  the  end  of  the  waste  ground  that  divided 
the  two  trench  systems,  precisely  upon  the  Ger- 
man line,  whose  sinuous  zigzag  could  still  be 
discerned  through  the  smoke,  the  shells  were 
hammering  with  furious  blows,  making  chunks  of 
white  trench  fly  like  shavings  under  a  carpenter's 
plane. 

Unstrung,  we  were  running  right  and  left,  calling 
out  to  one  another,  giving  one  another  news,  with- 
out knowing  anything  whatever. 

"It's  a  Boche  attack.   .    .   .     That's  a  barrag*-." 

"No,  it's  to  knock  out  their  machine  guns.  .  .  ." 

"It  appears  that  the  third  battalion  is  going  out 
to  carry  the  wood." 

Every  shell  sent  up  a  long  sheaf  of  earth  in  a 
cloud  of  smoke;  those  that  fell  on  the  wood  up- 
rooted whole  trees  and  flung  them  into  the  under- 
growth, all  standing  and  unbroken  like  enormous 
bouquets.  Our  liaison  orderly  passed  along  swiftly, 
knocking  against  us  as  he  went. 


50  Wooden  Crosses 

* '  Everybody  into  the  dug-outs.  It's  a  half -hour 
shoot;  very  possibly  they  will  reply." 

No  one  went  back.  The  whole  crowded  trench 
was  gazing  at  the  spectacle,  and  as  the  German 
artillery  made  no  answer,  the  most  cautious  be- 
came heroic.  Fouillard  even  sat  up  on  the  para- 
pet so  as  to  miss  nothing  of  the  show. 

When  a  well-aimed  salvo  fetched  its  four  pickaxe 
blows  on  to  the  trench,  ripping  up  a  sheaf  of  earth, 
of  stones  and  beams,  a  cry  of  admiration  arose,  the 
delighted  clamour  that  greets  a  show  of  fireworks. 
In  the  hubbub  nothing  else  could  be  heard  but 
this  happy  laughter,  this  good  sound  laughter,  as  if 
we  had  been  judging  the  effect  of  the  wooden  balls 
on  an  Aunt  Sally  in  a  village  merry-making.  Now 
and  then  a  cry  came  through  the  tumult. 

"Look,  boys,  a  poilu  going  up  in  the  air!" 
howled  Vairon  with  wild,  disjointed  gestures. 

"You're  seeing  spooks,"  retorted  Lemoine, 
jealous  because  he  had  seen  nothing.  "That's  a 
stump." 

"What  of!  I  tell  you  it's  a  Boche,  and  more 
than  that,  he  had  his  hoofs  in  the  air." 

Then  a  big  Jack  Johnson  came  along,  panting 
like  an  express  train  coming  into  a  railway  station, 
and  every  straining  eye  watched  for  the  place  it 
was  likely  to  come  down.  Then  there  was  an 
enormous  black  geyser  that  belched  up,  striped 
and  streaked  with  fire,  and  then  the  explosion  was 
heard  thundering. 

"There's  a  beauty!"  cried  the  trench. 


The  Red  Pennon  51 

The  wood  under  the  shelling  was  smoking  like  a 
factory.  Gesticulating  in  the  middle  of  the  hurly- 
burly,  Sulphart  was  bawling  his  delight. 

"He  that  hasn't  won  is  going  to  win!  It's  all 
luck  and  the  player's  own  fancy.  .  .  .  Come 
along!  hurry  up,  whoever  hasn't  got  his  counter! 
Six  for  a  penny."  In  one  hand  he  waved  imagin- 
ary numbers  like  a  cheap- jack  at  a  fair,  and  his 
bellowings  drowned  the  row.  With  a  horrible 
cracking  of  splintered  bones  others  were  bursting 
still,  rupping  up  the  lines  of  wire  like  ribbons. 

"Boom!  The  gentleman  has  won  a  splendid 
turkey-poult.  Come  on,  next,  please!  Have  a 
flutter.     Try  your  luck.   .    .    . " 

There  was  a  duller  thunder-clap,  a  shell  lit 
squarely  in  the  trench  that  threw  up  a  huge  spray 
of  earth  and  stumps. 

"This  time  it  is,"  cried  Vairon,  who  clung  to  his 
idea.  "I  saw  the  poilu  jump.  He  fell  back  on  to 
the  bank." 

The  others,  who  had  not  yet  seen  anything, 
anxiously  watched  for  the  next  shot  with  fixed 
eyes.  Demachy,  strangely  fevered,  his  fists 
clenched,  was  humming  a  tune  to  show  he  was 
not  afraid.  One's  ears  soon  get  accustomed  to 
this  rolling  crashing.  You  can  recognize  them  all 
by  their  voice:  the  seventy-five  that  cracks  in 
fury,  sets  off  with  a  whiew,  and  passes  so  quick 
that  you  can  see  it  burst  as  soon  as  you  hear  it 
starting;  the  hundred-and-twenty,  out  of  breath  — 
you  would  fancy  it  too  much  a  Weary  Willie  to 


52  Wooden  Crosses 

finish  its  journey;  the  hundred-and-fifty-five, 
that  seems  to  go  sliding  along  rails;  and  the  big 
Jack  Johnsons,  that  pass  over  high  up  with  a 
tranquil  sound  of  moving  waters.  The  wind  dis- 
solving the  thick  eddying  whirls  brought  a  breath 
sulphur  to  us,  a  strong  smell  of  powder.  Gilbert 
breathed  it  in  till  he  was  brimful  of  it.  Now  and 
then  you  could  clearly  hear  the  shell  whistle,  and 
then  five,  ten  seconds  passed,  and  it  didn't  explode, 
fallen  who  knows  where.  A  murmur  of  disappoint- 
ment would  go  up,  a  growl  of  befooled  sightseers. 

"It's  a  dud.   ..." 

With  his  drinking-cup  at  his  ear  like  a  telephone - 
receiver,  little  Belin  was  playing  at  being  a 
gunner. 

"4.800  metres,  .  .  .  high-explosive.  .  .  .  Fire 
with  two  guns." 

The  firing,  at  first  massed  in  front  of  the  wood, 
had  broadened  along  the  whole  enemy  line,  and 
the  black  and  green  plume-bursts  now  bordered  it 
from  end  to  end,  like  an  infernal  alley  of  trees. 
Suddenly  it  seemed  as  though  grey  caps  could  be 
seen  passing. 

"The  Boches  with  a  barrage!"  cried  Vairon. 

Men  jostled  one  another,  climbed  up  on  the 
sandbags. 

"There,  where  that  one  has  just  dropped!"  and 
many  fingers  pointed  to  the  spot,  under  a  green 
canopy  slashed  with  lightnings.  All  the  soldiers 
from  the  latest  drafts  were  stretching  their  necks, 
tiptoeing  on  the  square  points  of  their  big  boots- 


The  Red  Pennon  53 

"I'm  going  to  let  off  a  cartridge,"  said  Vairon, 
loading  his  rifle. 

He  put  his  piece  to  his  shoulder,  barely  took  a 
snap-aim,  and  pulled  the  trigger.  While  still 
deafened  by  the  report,  he  heard  the  infuriated 
yell  of  Morache,  the  Adjutant,  who  rushed  on  him 
gesticulating,  waving  his  stick  as  though  he  was 
going  to  strike  him. 

"Who  was  that  fired?  ...  I  want  to  know 
who  fired!  ...  It  was  you?  You'll  be 
punished." 

His  lean  visage  all  puckered  up,  he  was  yelping 
into  the  very  face  of  Vairon,  who  was  clean  bowled 
over. 

"So  we're  forbidden  to  kill  the  Boches  now," 
retorted  the  other  spiritlessly.  "That's  the  first 
shot  I've  fired  for  three  months." 

*  *  Hold  your  tongue,  I  forbid  you  to  argue ! ' 

Vairon  had  grown  pale  and  livid,  and  drooped 
his  obstinate  head,  the  head  of  a  regular  tough, 
and  emptied  his  lebel,  clenching  his  teeth  upon  his 
anger. 

"All  right,"  he  murmured,  though  he  gave  in, 
"we  won't  kill  your  Boches  for  you.  .  .  .  But 
then  I'd  like  to  know  what  the  hell  we're  doing 
here.   ..." 

'  *  What !  What 's  that  you  say  ? ' '  cried  Morache, 
fit  to  crack  his  voice.     "  I  '11  let  the  Captain  know. ' ' 

Vairon  fell  silent.  He  moved  away,  trailing 
his  rifle  like  a  useless  cudgel.  Then,  to  punish  his 
officers,  he  ostentatiously  dissociated  himself  from 


54  Wooden  Crosses 

the  bombardment,  and  went  and  lay  down  in  his 
hole.  He  brought  out  his  tobacco-pouch  and 
rolled  a  cigarette  with  a  hand  that  had  not  ceased 
to  tremble.  A  series  of  coppery  explosions  made 
him  lift  his  nose,  like  a  connoisseur. 

"Fused  shrapnel,"  he  murmured. 

The  outcry  of  admiration  from  the  trench  made 
him  regret  he  hadn't  seen  them,  but  he  still  had  his 
dignity  as  a  man;  he  refused  to  get  up.  At  that 
moment,  crips  and  clear  through  the  row,  a  Ger- 
man machine  gun  was  heard.  That  was  too  much 
for  him,  he  leaped  to  his  loophole. 

We  had  stopped  crying  out,  astonished,  a  trifle 
uneasy.  The  machine  gun  was  still  firing  without 
a  break,  exasperating,  as  if  it  was  driving  nails. 
And  suddenly  we  saw  what  it  was  firing  at. 

''Polius  going  over  the  top!  .  .  .  They're 
attacking  beyond  the  river." 

Everybody  had  exclaimed  together,  then  im- 
mediately all  fell  silent,  anxious,  nailed  to  the  spot. 
A  company  had  just  left  the  trenches  on  our  left, 
and  in  open  skirmishing  order,  without  their  packs, 
with  fixed  bayonets,  the  soldiers  were  running  over 
the  bare  fields.  The  regiment  next  to  us  was  try- 
ing a  surprise  attack,  and  it  was  they  that  the 
maxim  was  on  to,  with  its  regular  tap-tap  like  a 
sewing-machine.  Finding  the  range,  it  seemed  to 
tear  a  wide  gap  in  the  line  of  men. 

"They're  mown  down." 

"No,  they're  taking  cover." 

The  soldiers,  springing  up  again,  ran  on,  lay 


The  Red  Pennon  55 

down,  started  off  again,  but  in  spite  of  the  barrage 
pounding  their  line,  the  Germans  had  started  fir- 
ing and  you  could  see,  out  in  no  man's  land,  men 
spin  round  and  go  down  with  a  thud.  Some  of 
them  when  down  still  moved,  dragged  themselves 
towards  the  nearest  shell-hole.  Others,  dropping 
heavily  in  a  heap,  never  moved  again.  The  firing 
crackled  on,  thicker  and  heavier,  but  none  the  less, 
what  was  left  of  the  company  thrust  on,  the  scat- 
tered soldiers  closing  up  as  they  came  near  the 
trench  just  as  if  they  were  afraid  to  tackle  it  alone. 
The  machine  gun  concentrated  its  fire  on  this 
massed  troop,  and  almost  at  one  stroke  the  men 
went  down. 

One  single  cry  of  anguish  broke  from  us.  Then 
oaths,  rage,  distress. 

"But  no,  .  .  .  they've  taken  cover  again!" 
cried  Broucke. 

"Yes,"  said  Demachy,  who  had  taken  his  field- 
glasses  and  was  looking  through  them,  despairing. 
.  .  .  "There  are  some  left.  .  .  .  They're  in 
the  shell-holes.  The  wires  have  held  them 
up.   ..." 

We  were  hustling  one  another  behind  him, 
stretching  out  our  hands. 

"Pass  me  your  glasses,  I  say.  .  .  .  Hand 
them  over  here.   .    .    . " 

By  looking  closely,  in  spite  of  the  smoke  you 
could  still  see  them,  tiny,  gone  to  ground,  dotted 
about  the  shell-holes.  But  suddenly  a  cloud  of 
smoke  hid  them;  our  own  artillery  was  starting 


56  Wooden  Crosses 

again  and  was  trying — alas!  too  late — to  hack 
through  the  wide  hedge  of  barbed  wire. 

"In  God's  name,"  howled  Hamel,  "but  they're 
firing  on  to  them!" 

A  salvo  dropped  its  five  terrible  gusts  around 
the  living  wreckage,  then  the  shrapnel  broke  and 
hailed  above  them.  The  eyeless  guns  were  raging 
desperately  against  that  poor  corner. 

"But  they  must  be  warned!  .  .  .  The  firing 
must  be  stopped ! "  cried  Demachy,  livid  with  horror. 

The  Captain  passed  at  the  run. 

"Can't  they  see,  then!  An  orderly  here !  .  .  . 
Quick !  to  the  telephone ! ' ' 

Still  it  was  lashing  down,  harrowing  up  the 
ground.  Between  the  salvoes  something  could  be 
seen  moving  in  the  shell-holes,  a  form  rising  from 
the  earth ;  one  of  the  survivors  had  unfastened  his 
flannel  belt,  a  wide  red  belt,  and  kneeling  on  the 
edge  of  his  hole,  thirty  paces  from  the  Germans, 
he  was  waving  his  pennon,  his  arms  lifted  as  high 
as  he  could  stretch. 

"Red!  He's  asking  them  to  lift  the  range," 
cried  the  trench. 

Dry  and  tragical,  mauser  shots  rang  out.  The 
soldier  had  dropped  back  again,  perhaps  wounded. 
.  .  .  Shells  dug  once  more  into  the  accursed 
spot,  tearing  away  a  whirlwind  of  earth  in  the 
heavy  smoke.  Anxiously  we  waited  for  the  cloud 
to  drift  away. 

No,  he  was  not  dead.  The  man  stood  up  again, 
and  stretching  his  arm  to  the  utmost,  he  waved 


The  Red  Pennon  57 

his  belt  in  a  sweeping  red  gesture.  Once  more 
again  the  Boches  fired.     The  soldier  fell  once  more. 

Men  were  shouting:  "Swine!    Swine!" 

"We  must  attack!"  cried  Gilbert,  haggard  with 
pity  and  rage. 

Between  every  clap  of  thunder  the  soldier  stood 
up  every  time,  his  pennon  in  his  fist,  and  the  bullets 
never  sent  him  down  for  more  than  a  second. 
''Red!  Red!''  went  the  waving  belt.  But  the 
guns,  gone  crazy,  fired  on  all  the  same,  as  if  they 
were  minded  to  smash  them  all.  The  shells  en- 
circled the  burrowing  group,  came  still  nearer,  was 
about  to  overwhelm  them.   .    .    . 

Then  the  man  stood  upright,  full  in  the  open, 
and  with  a  great  wild  gesture  he  brandished  his 
pennon  above  his  head,  facing  the  enemy's  rifles. 
Twenty  shots  were  sped.  They  saw  him  stagger, 
and  he  fell,  his  body  riddled  and  broken  on  the 
keen  pointed  wires  whose  strands  received  him. 

The  man  had  fallen,  but  the  Boches  went  on 
firing  ferociously  all  the  same,  and  the  murderous 
crackle  hurt  us  cruelly,  desperately,  as  if  it  had 
dealt  us  all  a  wound.  A  cloud  of  shelling  hid  the 
horrible  scene.  But  still  the  firing  could  be  heard 
behind  the  moving  curtain.  The  smoke  dissipated. 
Nothing  was  moving  now.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  . 
An  arm  moved  still,  barely  moved,  trailing  its 

pennon     in     the     grass ''Red!  .    .    . 

Lengthen  the  range!  .  .  .  Lengthen  the 
range!  ..." 


58  Wooden  Crosses 

Lights  were  hiding  under  the  huts.  Laughter 
and  voices  were  snuggling  into  them,  shivering  with 
cold.  It  was  the  hour  before  sleep.  The  bitter 
wind  that  swept  through  the  branches  with  the 
sound  like  a  weir  brought  from  the  trenches  the 
random  shots  of  over-anxious  sentries. 

Then  all  at  once  the  long  crackle  of  a  salvo  tore 
the  silence,  rockets  abolished  the  night  with  their 
sinister  and  livid  career,  and  the  firing  broke  out 
again  as  you  might  make  a  fire  blaze  up  again  with 
a  bundle  of  briars. 

"Here,  that's  beginning  again,"  cne  boys  would 
say.  And  Vairon,  his  blanket  about  his  nose, 
would  murmur.  *'As  long  as  they  don't  begin 
asking  for  reinforcements!" 

Solicitous,  perhaps  uneasy,  the  Captain,  Cruchet, 
walked  nervously  up  and  down  in  the  roadway; 
now  and  then  he  clambered  up  the  bank,  behind 
the  vineyards,  and  scanned  the  big  black  fields 
towards  the  sheepfold.  That  was  where  the  firing 
was  going  on.  And  yet  there  was  nothing  to  be 
seen.  The  night  was  impervious,  with  never  a 
streak  of  lightning,  never  a  flare  from  a  shell,  and 
the  rockets  that  burst  over  the  main  road  in  great 
balls  of  light  only  disclosed  stately,  silent  trees  in 
the  sleeping  fields. 

What  was  happening?  Nobody  knew.  Per- 
haps the  Germans  were  attacking  the  main  road. 
The  firing  was  confined  to  not  more  than  a  couple 
of  hundred  metres,  and  was  as  though  lost  in  that 
vast  horizon  of  absolute  quiet.     Wholly  ignorant 


The  Red  Pennon  59 

of  events,  we  listened  to  the  war  of  the  two  oppos- 
ing noises,  and  when  silence  fell  again  after  a  salvo, 
we  thought:  "That's  that.  .  .  .  They  have 
repulsed  the  Boches." 

Sulphart  was  shuffling  the  cards  over  and  over;^ 
and  Broucke,  to  lull  himself  to  sleep,  was  repeating 
his  ditty. 

Dors,  min  p'tit  quinquin. 
Min  p'tit  pouchin, 
Min  p'tit  poujin. 

The  others  were  already  sleeping.  In  the  dark 
depths  of  the  hut  there  was  nothing  now  to  be 
heard  but  the  regular  sound  of  the  nails  of  one  of 
our  boys  who  was  scratching  his  stomach,  tor- 
mented by  lice.  The  firing,  blazing  up  again, 
failed  to  waken  them.  The  Captain  watched 
alone,  a  long,  lean  frame,  all  legs.  He  was  waiting 
for  Bourland,  one  of  his  orderlies,  whom  he  had 
sent  to  the  road  to  bring  him  news,  I  heard  the 
hobnailed  boots  of  the  soldier  returning. 

A  little  later  an  order  passed  from  hut  to  hut. 

"Get  up.    .    .    .     Muster.    ..." 

As  the  firing  seemed  to  be  extending,  we  tumbled 
out  quickly,  thrusting  each  other  about,  our  hands 
disputing  for  our  rifles  in  the  dark.  Rapidly  the 
sections  fell  into  line.  The  newly  awakened  men 
shivered,  surprised  by  the  frosty  night. 

**The  fourth  company  is  perhaps  going  to  need 
us, ' '  said  the  Captain  in  his  dry  voice.     ' '  They  are 


6o  Wooden  Crosses 

expecting  an  attack.  Accordingly  it  is  expressly 
forbidden  to  take  boots  off.  ...  Is  that  clear? 
Kits  to  be  kept  packed,  blankets  on  top,  every 
man  to  have  his  rifle  by  him.  .  .  .  Now,  I  want 
a  volunteer." 

We  were  listening,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  the  four 
sections  forming  square.  A  desultory  crackle  of 
firing  made  him  silent  for  a  moment,  his  ear 
cocked;  then  the  noise  crumbled  away  in 
scattered  shots,  and  a  disturbing  silence  washed 
out  everything.     Were  they  at  the  road? 

"A  volunteer  who  knows  the  section  pretty 
well,"  went  on  the  Captain,  speaking  faster.  "It 
is  a  matter  of  guiding  a  patrol  of  the  fourth  which  is 
to  get  in  touch  with  the  territorials  on  the  right 
bank  of  the  river.  Enemy  details  may  perhaps 
have  slipped  in  there.  ...  I  know  more  than 
one  stout  fellow  in  the  company,  I  fancy,  among 
my  old  hands." 

''Here!"  at  once  called  out  a  voice. 

It  was  Gilbert.  Quickly  he  had  called  out,  on 
the  spur,  without  reflecting,  merely  for  the  vibrant 
delight  of  hearing  in  the  silence  his  voice  with  no 
fear  in  it;  merely  to  throw  out  his  name  proudly 
before  three  hundred  dumb  men. 

* '  Demachy — first  section. ' ' 

And  his  heart  thumped  to  hear  his  own  voice, 
his  proffered  name.  .  .  .  Confidently  he  stepped 
out  of  his  rank,  making  a  way  for  himself  with  his 
elbows  and  stood  at  attention. 

'*I'd  have  liked  an  old  hand  better,"  said  the 


The  Red  Pennon  6i 

Captain.  "Still,  since  you  come  forward,  it*s 
well.   .    .    .     It's  very  well." 

We  were  sent  back  to  shelter,  and  Gilbert,  hav- 
ing been  given  his  orders,  moved  off,  weapon  in 
hand. 

He  climbed  the  bank  and  went  by  the  fields.  As 
he  was  skirting  the  vineyards  he  gave  a  jump.  A 
man  there,  right  in  front  of  him.  It  was  a  sentry 
keeping  watch  on  the  plain. 

"You're  going  to  the  road?  Go  down  as  far  as 
the  apple-tree,  then  you've  only  to  follow  the  path. 
.  .  .  But  look  lively,  you  know;  it  whistles  a 
bit  when  they  start  firing." 

He  set  off  again.  Partridges  woke  up  and  made 
away  from  under  his  feet  with  their  heavy  flight. 
He  had  again  to  repress  a  quick  movement  of  re- 
coil, and  with  freezing  hands  he  loaded  his  rifle. 
His  eyes  searched  the  darkness ;  no  sign  of  a  tree 
there.  Three  hundred  metres  from  the  dug-outs 
he  felt  himself  isolated  and  alone,  already  threat- 
ened and  in  danger,  far  from  everything.  He  was 
not  afraid,  however;  it  was  this  great  silence,  that 
void,  that  darkness,  that  troubled  him. 

The  firing  broke  out  again  suddenly,  and  a  few 
bullets  sang  round  him.  He  felt  no  fear  of  them. 
Only  he  held  his  rifle  across  his  body  in  such  a 
way  that  the  stock  protected  his  belly,  and  he 
lowered  his  head,  naively  thinking  that  in  this  way 
nothing  could  touch  him.  Only  the  rockets 
guided  him,  and  the  invisible  firing.  He  walked 
toilsomely,  at  every  step  heaving  up  his  boots 


62  Wooden  Crosses 

weighted  with  clay.  Now  and  then  he  caught  a 
furtive  sound,  and  dropping  on  his  knees,  finger  on 
trigger,  he  peered  about. 

The  trenches  were  not  joined  up  at  the  river. 
Suppose  the  Germans  had  slipped  in  there!  He 
waited  a  moment,  then  started  again,  bending 
still  more.  A  path  cut  across  the  fields.  Was 
this  the  right  one?  ...  He  followed  it  at  ran- 
dom. The  brutal  sound  of  the  firing  was  drawing 
nearer.  At  last  he  could  distinguish  the  line  of 
trees  by  the  road,  and  let  himself  slide  down  the 
bank.  In  the  ditch  there  lay  about  accoutrements, 
kit,  weapons,  packs;  against  a  heap  of  broken  stone 
a  dead  man  was  lying.  Gilbert  turned  away  his 
eyes  and  quickly  sped  across  the  roadway.  The 
fourth  company  was  deployed  in  skirmishing 
order,  the  soldiers  clinging  to  the  stony  side  of  the 
bank.  Sitting  on  a  milestone  a  man  was  dipping 
bread  in  a  drinking-cup. 

"Who  are  you?" 

*'I'm  from  the  third  company.  ...  I'm 
looking  for  Captain  Stanislas,  for  the  patrol." 

"That's  me." 

At  that  moment  a  voice  came  down  from  above : 

"There's  something  moving  close  to  the  stack.'* 

The  Captain  swelled  his  voice. 

"Attention  for  a  salvo!  Left  of  the  straw 
stack.   .    .    .      Present.   .    .    .     Fire!" 

A  terrible  crack  stunned  Gilbert.  He  had  seen 
all  along  the  bank  the  thin  edging  of  flames  jet 
forth. 


The  Red  Pennon  63 

"Follow  the  road  as  far  as  the  tree  that  lies 
across  it,  about  five  hundred  metres  off,  .  .  . " 
said  the  officer,  sitting  down  again.  "The  patrol 
is  waiting  for  you." 

Gilbert  hurried  along.  In  the  darkness  the 
sheepfold  could  be  divined,  a  big  derelict  building 
with  its  walls  riddled  with  loopholes.  Farther  on 
the  bank  decreased,  barely  overhanging  the  road, 
and  at  this  point  a  tree  was  down.  Gilbert  halted 
and  put  one  knee  to  the  ground.  A  voice  hailed 
him  out  of  the  field  hidden  in  the  dark : 

"Is  that  the  man  from  the  third  company? 
.    .    .     This  way." 

There  were  five  of  them.  Sitting  on  his  heels, 
the  corporal  was  scanning  the  night  with  mistrust. 

"Do  you  know  the  road  well?" 

"Yes,"  said  Gilbert,  "it's  over  there." 

And  with  a  gesture  he  pointed  into  the  night. 

"That's  where  they  made  a  surprise  attack  on 
Sunday?  .    .    .     The  lad  with  the  red  pennon?" 

They  fixed  bayonets,  and  the  rifles  were  length- 
ened with  a  slender  gleam.  The  corporal  was 
hoisting  himself  up  when  a  rocket  whistled  off. 

"Don't  move." 

They  stayed  motionless.  The  full-blown  rocket 
fell  back,  shaking  its  dazzhng  head.  Crouching 
in  a  ring,  they  looked  as  if  they  were  ready  to  dance 
the  capucine.  On  the  ridge  a  file  of  men  was  dis- 
covered, laden  with  stakes  and  tools,  then  it  dis- 
appeared when  the  rocket  was  quenched. 

"Come  along!" 


64  Wooden  Crosses 

The  firing  that  had  calmed  down  for  a  moment 
at  times  livened  up  again,  to  die  down  again  as 
quickly. 

'  *  Hark  at  them, ' '  grumbled  the  corporal.  ' '  They 
don't  mean  to  leave  a  beet  standing." 

' '  You've  been  attacked  ? ' ' 

*' Telegraph  poles,  oh  yes!  and  the  straw  stack. 
That's  what  they've  been  firing  at  for  the  last  two 
hours.  .  .  .  Good  job  they  don't  aim  this  way, 
theb s!" 

They  went  on  in  open  order,  several  paces  apart. 
Gilbert  went  in  front.  On  the  ridge,  a  dull  noise 
gave  life  to  the  darkness,  the  clinking  of  spades. 
Then  they  entered  into  the  realm  of  the  unknown. 

They  went  a  hundred  paces,  kneeled  down, 
ransacked  the  fields  with  a  piercing  eye,  then  set 
off  again.  The  corporal  prodded  a  black  shape 
with  the  point  of  his  bayonet.  .  .  .  Gilbert's 
heart  leaped. 

*' Nothing,   .    .    .   a  sheaf." 

They  must  now  have  been  coming  close  up  to 
the  river  when  the  night  seemed  to  grow  brighter. 
There  was  now  in  front  of  the  moon  only  a  filmy 
curtain;  the  wind  pulled  it  aside  and  the  fields 
appeared,  bare  as  your  hand.  The  patrol  stood 
still,  unmasked  by  that  huge  celestial  flare.  They 
remained  for  one  endless  moment  crouching, 
silent,  without  moving.  Gilbert  alone  raised  him- 
self on  his  elbows,  bare-headed,  and  tried  to  make 
out  his  whereabouts  and  the  lay  of  the  land.  When 
the  moon  was  hidden  again,  he  got  up  the  first  and 


The  Red  Pennon  65 

set  off  in  a  straight  line.  He  had  seen  the  first 
corpses  lying  in  the  grass.  ...  it  was  the  right 
road  they  were  on.  At  the  first  he  brushed  against 
he  made  a  sharp  movement  of  terror,  fear  of  the 
cold  hand  that  was  on  the  point  of  seizing  him. 
The  man  had  dropped  in  a  ball,  his  knees  doubled 
up,  seeming  to  continue  his  dreadful  praying  into 
the  infinite. 

Gilbert  no  longer  dared  to  go  forward,  fear  thrill- 
ing in  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  his  legs  powerless  and 
flabby.  He  pushed  sharply  up  against  the 
corporal. 

"What,  it's  not  there,  is  it?"  murmured  the 
voice. 

'*Yes." 

He  looked  at  the  dead  men,  all  those  dead  men 
he  had  seen  running  to  their  cruel,  hideous  fate. 
Their  immense  field  frightened  him,  all  those  for- 
gotten sheaves.  .  .  .  He  guessed  at  them  every- 
where, in  every  shell-hole,  in  every  furrow,  and  no 
longer  dared  to  move.  Nothing  could  save  him, 
not  even  the  comrade  against  whom  he  pressed. 

"Well,  then,  we're  going  on?" 

A  little  farther,  the  soldiers'  overcoats  were 
huddled  in  bunches.  They  were  already  so  flat, 
the  bodies  so  empty,  that  one  could  barely  imagine 
that  they  had  ever  lived,  had  ever  run.  An  il- 
limitable distress  weighed  upon  Gilbert's  heart. 
Now  they  terrified  him  no  more.  Can  one  be 
afraid  of  those  one  loves?  Making  a  powerful 
effort  over  himself,  forcing  his  reluctant  hands,  he 


66  Wooden  Crosses 

stooped  over  a  corpse  and  unbuttoned  its  coat  to 
take  its  papers.  He  hardly  even  had  a  little 
shiver  of  nerves  when  he  felt  the  cold  flesh  of  the 
neck  under  his  timid  fingers.  The  corporal  was 
already  stooping  to  take  the  medal  from  another. 

The  poor  comrades  they  had  come  to  see  in  their 
annihilation  were  to  live  again  for  a  moment  imder 
their  brotherly  hands.  And  awakened  and  com- 
passionate, it  was  the  dead  who  guided  the  patrol, 
seeming  to  pass  the  living  on  from  hand  to  hand. 


Gilbert  came  back  at  early  dawn. 

"I  took  the  patrol  right  up  to  the  Boche  trench 
system,"  he  recounted  to  the  Captain. 

Cruchet  only  replied,  ''Ah!   .    .    ." 

And  he  wore  a  smile  so  incredulous  that  Gilbert 
reddened  under  it.  Someone  present  told  the  tale 
in  his  own  version,  and  some  of  the  boys  looked 
at  the  volunteer  with  a  bantering  eye. 

"Some  blokes  know  how  to  tell  the  tale,"  said 
Fouillard  to  nobody  in  particular.  .  .  .  "He'll 
get  his  corporal's  stripes." 

And  another : 

"You  shove  yourself  into  shell-hole  for  a  couple 
of  hours,  you  know,  and  then  you  come  and  pitch 
it  that  you've  visited  their  listening-post." 

Gilbert,  who  was  talking  to  us,  made  no  retort. 
A  little  bitter  smile  wrinkled  his  mouth. 

"I'm  going  to  swaddle  up  my  rifle  like  you,"  he 
said  to  Lemoine;  "the  rain  has  got  mine  all  rusty." 


The  Red  Pennon  67 

He  went  off  with  his  head  down.  Sitting  at  the 
entrance  of  his  shelter,  he  took  his  rifle  between 
his  knees,  and  unbuttoning  his  coat,  he  brought 
out  a  wide  belt  of  red  flannel.  The  laughing 
stopped  like  a  shot. 

They  looked  out  into  the  plain,  in  front  of  the 
German  trench.  The  red  pennon  was  not  there 
now. 


CHAPTER  IV 

GOOD  DAYS 

Under  the  rain  we  were  humping  ourselves  like 
cats.  This  muddy  black  village  was  not  expecting 
us,  and,  piled  up  in  drenched  packets  along  the 
sleeping  houses,  we  watched  out  for  the  return  of 
the  quartermasters  who  were  hunting  for  billets 
for  us.  Our  own,  big  Lambert,  had  just  gone  into 
that  farmhouse  whose  red-curtained  windows 
crimsoned  the  night  with  a  glare  like  a  public 
house,  and  from  the  street  we  recognized,  though 
without  catching  the  words,  his  cordial  tones  en- 
deavouring to  convince  and  persuade  the  house- 
holder. The  farmer,  a  stiff-necked  peasant 
replied  noisily : 

"No,  no!  I  won't  sleep  any  of  them  in  my 
cellar,  I  tell  you  fiat.  They'd  drink  the  bit  of  a 
cask  I've  got  left  on  me." 

The  company,  which  was  going  out  of  the 
trenches,  had  sat  down  at  the  whistle,  harassed, 
covered  with  mud,  soaked.  Before  us,  others  were 
still  passing  along,  with  the  hurrying  trampling  of 
a  funeral  behind  time,  trotting  towards  Bagneux. 

After  the  machine  gunners  with  their  splashed 
mules,  half  seen  through  a  mist  of  rain  and  weari- 

68 


Good  Days  69 

ness,  there  passed  the  jolting  lorries  of  the  Army 
Service  Corps,  the  butcher's  cart,  the  ambulance 
with  its  wheels  iron-shod,  and  at  the  tail  of  the 
regiment  the  company  carts,  a  burlesque  proces- 
sion of  four-wheeled  waggons,  old  stage-coaches, 
and  shandry-dans  picked  up  by  chance  in  march 
and  countermarch,  from  Charleroi  to  Reims:  old 
wains  with  creaking  axles,  tilt-carts  overflowing 
with  packs  and  rifles,  covered  carts  under  dripping 
awnings,  family  brakes  and  brewers*  drays;  then 
bringing  up  the  rear  of  the  column,  the  baggage- 
master's  phaeton,  dragged  by  a  big  plough-horse 
almost  too  thick  to  squeeze  into  the  shafts. 

The  men  had  no  eyes  for  anything,  absolutely 
worn  out,  half-sleeping.  The  passing  wheels 
brushed  against  them,  but  they  didn't  even  shift 
their  feet  back.  They  had  let  themselves  drop 
just  where  they  happened  to  be,  without  looking* 
with  no  fear  of  the  mud  that  could  never  make 
them  dirtier  than  they  were,  and  piled  themselves 
together  in  soaking  bundles,  crouching  under 
doorways  or  sitting  on  their  packs  with  their 
backs  against  the  wall.  Some  that  were  still 
standing  were  cramping  up  to  the  houses  all  along, 
to  shelter  under  the  eaves;  their  arms  crossed  on 
their  rifles,  they  talked  of  fresh  straw,  of  wine  not 
too  dear,  of  rest-time  with  no  drill,  a  whole  world 
of  visionary  happiness;  and  the  others  were 
listening  stupidly,  too  done  to  want  anything  be- 
yond the  mere  right  to  fall  asleep. 

Every  moment  an  officer  would  pass  and  throw  a 


70  Wooden  Crosses 

harsh  light  on  the  squatting  forms  with  a  sudden 
ray  of  his  electric  torch. 

''Orderlies!  .  .  .  Where  are  the  liaison  order- 
lies ?    This  is  simply  madness ! ' ' 

Running  up,  a  quartermaster  called : 

''That's  all  right,  Captain!  I've  found  a  good 
billet  for  the  horses." 

The  rain  kept  on  falling,  falling,  fine,  cold,  and 
soft.  Overhead,  between  the  high  wan  banks  of 
the  houses,  the  night  swam  like  a  black  river. 


The  whole  house  resounds  from  the  yard  to  the 
garret.  In  the  kitchen,  where  eddies  the  acrid 
smoke  from  green  wood,  men  are  fighting  for 
quarts  of  wine.  The  staircase  is  full  of  comings 
and  goings,  up  and  down,  and  singing. 

But  out  here  in  the  garden  everything  is  at 
quiet.  To  make  a  seat  for  myself  I  have  taken  the 
bucket  and  turned  it  upside  down,  and,  installed 
in  idleness  with  my  back  to  the  wall,  as  though 
deep  in  an  armchair,  I  am  day-dreaming.  It  is 
early  morning.  Day  has  not  long  finished  her 
toilette,  the  grass  is  still  dewy,  and  the  sky  is  bring- 
ing out  armf uls  of  white  clouds  that  he  hangs  out 
to  dry  like  linen. 

Indolent  eyed,  still  dulled  with  sleep,  I  look  at 
the  garden  all  lying  fallow,  with  its  bushes  despoiled, 
its  tufts  of  weeds,  and  its  squeaking,  creak- 
ing pump,  at  which  the  boys  are  cleaning  them- 
selves up.    I  laze  on,  between  sleeping  and  waking. 


Good  Days  71 

We  have  slept  sumptuously.  For  the  first  time 
in  a  fortnight  we  have  been  able  to  get  our  boots 
off,  get  rid  of  belt,  bayonet,  all  that  beastly  equip- 
ment that  cuts  into  your  soft  ribs.  I  woke  pre- 
cisely as  I  lay  down,  sausaged  up  in  my  blanket, 
my  head  in  a  cupboard,  the  plank  floor  for  my 
mattress  and  a  bag  of  beans  for  pillow.  I  must 
have  had  splendid  dreams.  When  I  awoke 
fragments  were  still  sticking  in  my  mind  like  down 
from  an  eiderdown  quilt. 

The  corporals,  all  collected  in  the  washhouse,  are 
sharing  out  woollen  clothing  for  their  squads.  Now 
that  it's  not  so  cold  great  bales  of  it  arrive  every 
week. 

Down  along  by  the  hedge,  Sulphart  is  brushing 
Gilbert's  puttees,  whistling  the  while.  He  has 
found  a  room  with  some  good  people  where  we  are 
to  make  our  mess,  and  already  he  is  thinking  over 
breakfast.  To  eat  at  a  table,  and  off  plates,  .  .  . 
that  seems  to  me  something  almost  too  rich  and 
rare,  and  I  don't  dare  quite  to  believe  in  it  alto- 
gether for  fear  of  being  disappointed. 

''This  is  a  good  life,"  repeats  Sulphart.  Round 
him  are  six  or  seven  men  cleaning  their  mud- 
plastered  coats.  First  of  all  they  scrape  at  the 
mud  with  their  knives  or  a  bit  of  broken  bottle, 
and  when  it  is  turned  into  dust  they  beat  their 
duds  like  a  carpet,  with  lusty  blows  of  a  stick. 
That's  what  we  mean  by  "brushing." 

"Talk  about  your  rotten  mud!  .  .  .  And 
this  does  stick — it's  chalk." 


72  Wooden  Crosses 

♦^  With  the  charming  immodesty  of  soldiers  two 
of  the  boys,  naked  to  the  waist,  are  hunting  f6r 
their  Hce.  Vairon  is  holding  his  flannel  out  at 
arm's  length,  as  a  painter  might  scrutinize  a 
picture,  and  with  nose  all  wrinkled  up  and  eyes 
intent,  he  is  inspecting  his  garment.  Then,  when 
he  has  discovered  the  beast,  he  brings  his  thumbs 
quickly  together,  and  ** crack!"  he  squashes  it. 
Broucke,  on  the  contrary,  is  going  over  his  shirt, 
fold  by  fold,  his  nose  almost  thrust  into  it,  and 
hunts  quietly  and  methodically.  When  he  routs 
out  a  big  fat  fellow  he  utters  a  cry : 

''One  more  that'll  never  nibble  me  again!" 

Vairon,  whose  nails  are  cracking,  counts  out 
loud: 

"Thirty-two,    .    .    .   thirty-three." 

"Twenty-seven,  .  .  .  twenty-eight,  .  .  ." 
responds  the  lad  from  the  North  quietly. 

As  he  scrapes  the  puttees,  Sulphart  follows  the 
hunters  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur.  Already 
he  has  his  favourite. 

' '  You'll  see  it  will  be  Vairon  that'll  bag  the  most. 
His  blood's  hotter.   .    .    .     Are  they  big 'uns?" 

"Regular  iron  crossers,"  the  other  informs  him 
vaingloriously. 

"That's  nothing,  anyway,  that  lot  isn*t,"  says 
Sulphart  with  his  important  air.  "Some  boys 
have  had  red  ones,  Arab  lice.  They're  fiercer, 
they  wolf  in  your  blood.  And  they  give  you 
diseases,  too.  But  the  other  ones  likely  would 
rather  draw  off  bad  humours.'* 


Good  Days  73 

** Nothing  better  for  the  health,"  adds  a  well- 
informed  comrade,  who  is  pulling  off  his  shirt  to 
begin  his  own  private  hunt.  ''They  suck  out  the 
evil  out  of  you.    .    .    ." 

** There  was  my  small  brother:  it  was  the  lice 
and  the  ringworm  that  kept  him  from  having  a  go 
of  meningitis.'* 

"I'm  not  surprised,"  replies  the  other,  now  be- 
ginning the  inspection  of  his  belt. 

But  from  his  very  first  look  he  finds  himself  dis- 
couraged. His  underclothing  is  simply  swarming 
with  vermin ;  their  black  files  can  be  seen  crawling 
in  every  fold.  For  one  moment  he  seems  to  hesi- 
tate, then  making  up  his  mind,  he  rolls  everything 
up  into  a  ball — his  shirt,  his  drawers,  his  belt — 
and  hurls  the  parcel  over  the  wall. 

"So  much  the  worse  for  that.  I'll  get  on  to  a 
fresh  lot.  Anyway,  that'll  always  be  so  much 
the  less  to  wash." 

Fouillard,  whom  I  heard  a  moment  ago  shout- 
ing in  his  den,  has  just  displayed  himself  on  the 
threshold,  his  bare  arms  black  with  soot  and 
glistening  with  grease;  from  his  unlaced  shoes  to 
his  dishevelled  hair  nobody  could  find,  no  matter 
how  closely  he  searched,  a  spot  that  could  be  soiled. 
His  skin,  his  body-linen,  his  trousers,  everything  is 
grey,  greasy,  bespotted,  and  when  with  a  familiar 
gesture  he  rubs  his  palms  on  his  behind  to  wipe  them 
dry,  you  ask  yourself  which  is  going  to  dirty  the 
other,  the  seat  of  his  trousers  or  his  hands.     He 


74  Wooden  Crosses 

stares  at  us  for  an  instant,  severely,  ransacks  the 
garden  with  a  mistrusting  look,  and  shouts : 

**Who  is  the  dirty  dog  that's  pinched  my 
bucket?" 

My  first  impulse  was  to  get  up  in  order  to  re- 
store him  the  said  object.  But  no,  I  am  really 
much  too  comfortable.  I  find  myself  still  more 
comfortable  seated,  since  somebody  wants  to  take 
the  thing  away  from  me.  Comfort  is  a  kind  of 
paralysis  to  me. 

"Anyhow,  I  can't  jolly  well  go  and  fetch  water 
in  my  boots,"  yells  the  cook. 

Oh,  no!  That  would  be  very  poor  advice  to 
give.  Nevertheless,  I  keep  my  knees  close  to- 
gether so  as  to  hide  my  seat,  and  I  look  guilelessly 
at  Fouillard,  now  thoroughly  frantic  and  howling 
with  impotent  fury. 

*'Pack  of  pigs!  So  after  all,  I'm  through  with 
it.  I'm  going  to  drop  you  and  your  cooking;  if 
any  of  you  would  like  to  take  it  on,  he  has  only  to 
go  and  put  his  name  down  on  the  roll." 


We  must  make  a  fine  show,  the  four  sections  in 
square  formation. 

There  aren't  two  rigs  precisely  alike.  Except 
the  latest  arrivals,  we  have  been  equipped  with 
odds  and  ends,  in  the  confusion  of  the  early  months 
of  the  war,  and  since  then  we've  just  managed  the 
best  way  we  could.  There  are  overcoats  of  every 
kind  of  hue,  of  every  kind  of  shape,  every  kind  of 


Good  Days  75 

age.  Tall  men  have  too  short  coats,  and  little  men 
too  long  ones.  Fouillard's  back  strap  on  his  coat 
knocked  most  pitiably  on  his  backside;  and  on 
Father  Hamel's  wide  corporation  the  all  too  nar- 
row coat  made  horizontal  wrinkles,  all  the  buttons 
ready  to  fly  off.  For  my  own  part,  Sulphart  is  the 
one  I  like  best. 

He  is  clad  in  a  top-coat  of  the  old  style,  deep 
blue,  with  a  big  patch  pocket  of  a  pretty  hus- 
sar's blue.  He  has  stitched  his  first-aid  packet 
on  to  his  left  breast,  and  reinforced  his  puttees 
with  a  band  of  stout  leather  cut  out  of  regulation 
gaiters.  Like  every  good  soldier  on  active  ser- 
vice, he  has  taken  pains  to  distinguish  himself  by 
breaking  the  peak  of  his  kepi,  in  the  fashion  of 
the  Bat'  d'  Af';  and  he  has  still  further  adorned 
this  headgear,  now  flatter  than  a  pancake,  with  a 
plaited  chin-strap  of  the  choicest  effect. 

His  broad  crackled  shoes,  dried  up  and  hard  as 
horn,  that  you  might  fancy  had  been  cut  out  of  old 
wood  with  a  billhook,  still  carry  on  their  twisted 
heels  something  of  the  glorious  mud  of  the 
trenches;  and  his  red  trousers  show  at  the  thigh 
through  a  wide  rent  in  his  blue  cloth  coat.  You 
might  fancy  he  had  been  specially  drawn  for 
V  Illustration. 

Others,  who  have  already  got  hold  of  the  new 
overcoats  of  horizon  blue,  play  the  heavy  swell. 
You  might  say  they  are  off  to  the  war  in  their 
Simday  clothes.  The  boys  look  at  them  with  an 
irony  a  little  forced. 


76  Wooden  Crosses 

"Don't  you  worry;  always  the  same  lot,  that 
click.   ..." 

"Ah,  you  see,  the  quartermaster  only  chucked 
them  to  the  blighters  that  greased  his  paw  on  the 
quiet.    ..." 

And  Sulphart,  looking  at  those  dandy  jacks 
with  eyes  ensnared,  is  already  dreaming  of  the 
happy  alterations  he  is  going  to  transact  on  his 
own  rig. 

"I'll  cut  two  big  raglan  pockets  on  the  two 
sides,  and  I'll  fit  up  a  stick-up  collar  for  myself. 
.    .    .     You'll  see  if  I  won't  be  the  complete  toff." 

Captain  Cruchet,  who  has  very  sharp  ears, 
turns  about,  his  lips  tight. 

"Silence!  Who  spoke?  .  .  .  You  are  at  at- 
tention.    Look  after  your  men,  Morache." 

Ricordeau,  who  is  looking  to  have  his  sergeant's 
stripes,  draws  down  his  brow  as  he  looks  at  us  to 
make  it  appear  that  he  is  a  man  in  authority. 
Sulphart  doesn't  turn  a  hair,  but  behind  him  Gil- 
bert is  on  tenterhooks,  afraid  that  someone  will 
spot  his  sweater,  which  is  too  long.  Everybody 
is  silent.  Satisfied,  the  Captain  goes  on  with  his 
inspection.  As  he  draws  near,  backs  straighten 
up,  as  if  a  button  had  been  pressed ;  left  arms  hung 
rigid,  and  all  eyes,  a  little  lacking  in  confidence, 
looked  intelligently  into  space  at  a  distance  theo- 
retically computed  at  fifteen  paces.  Lean,  long- 
legged,  his  long  face  framed  between  short  black 
side-whiskers.  Captain  Cruchet  has  an  air  of 
natural  severity  that  produces  its  effect.     With 


Gocxl  Days  77 

eye-brows  full  of  care,  he  comes  forward  slowly, 
scanning  every  man  as  if  he  was  meeting  him  for 
the  first  time. 

"Take  off  your  cap." 

Our  comrade,  very  red  about  the  gills,  awk- 
wardly removes  his  kepi. 

"Tt!  Tt!  Tt!  Tt!  It's  far  too  long,  it's  simply 
filthy!  I  must  have  that  hair  cut.  Take  his 
name,  Morache." 

As  his  back  is  turned  to  us,  several  of  our  boys 
furtively  slip  their  caps  off,  and,  spitting  in  their 
hands,  sleek  down  their  restive  locks  as  well  as 
they  can.  Unluckily  the  Captain  is  not  taking  an 
interest  in  hair  only.  He  notices  everything: 
the  missing  button,  the  rust-spot  on  the  rifle,  the 
ill-greased  boot,  the  spot  of  mud  on  the  cartridge- 
pouch  ;  and  in  an  icy  voice  he  enquires : 

"Where  did  you  get  yourself  filthy  like  that?" 

What  a  fool  of  a  question !  .    .    . 

Having  properly  wigged  Br^val,  whose  car- 
tridge-pouch holds  together  with  string,  he  stops 
in  front  of  Sulphart.  The  other  stood  perfectly 
rigid,  heels  clamped  together,  eyes  right.  The 
Captain  considers  him  for  a  good  minute,  and  then : 

"He's  a  beauty,  that  fellow,"  he  scoffs. 

Sulphart  has  not  moved  a  muscle,  not  even 
winked  an  eye.  His  neighbours  look  at  him  out 
of  the  corners  of  their  eyes,  with  little  sidelong 
smiles. 

"You  fancy  yourself  more  seductive  with  the 
peak  of  your  cap  broken,  like  a  vagabond.     Ttt! 


7^  Wooden  Crosses 

.  .  .  ttt!  .  .  .  Is  it  to  give  the  girls  a  treat? 
They'd  have  queer  taste!" 

The  deHght  of  the  neighbours  breaks  out  in  little 
servile  laughs.  Still  Sulphart  does  not  turn  a 
hair,  the  left  hand  wide  open,  the  head  a  thought 
thrown  back. 

*'And  that  hair!  My  word!  he's  not  had  it 
cut  since  the  very  start  of  the  campaign.  .  .  . 
Torn  trousers.  Ttt !  .  .  .  ttt !  .  .  .  mud  on  his 
shoes.  .  .  .  Bad  turnout,  shocking  bad  turn- 
out! You  will  take  this  fellow's  name,  Morache; 
four  days'  cells.  .  .  .  And  see  that  his  hair's  cut. 
.    .    .   ttt!   .    .    .   ttt!   .    .    .  as  short  as  possible." 

Sulphart  has  remained  perfectly  impassible.  He 
has  not  so  much  as  blinked,  not  so  much  as  shud- 
dered.    Ah !  these  conquerors  of  the  Marne ! 

We  were  fancying  the  review  at  an  end,  and  im- 
patience was  playing  pins  and  needles  in  our  knees 
when  the  Captain  gave  the  order: 

"Down  kits!" 

I  was  sure  it  would  come.  It's  an  inspection  of 
emergency  rations  this  time.  Kneeling  before 
your  unfastened  kit,  you've  got  to  unpack  every- 
thing, undo  everything,  bring  out  everything;  to 
find  the  salt  soup-cube  crushed  under  your  shirts, 
or  the  coffee  tablet  that  is  crumbling  away  among 
your  socks  and  soiling  your  linen. 

On  your  knees,  in  a  fury,  you  empty  your  whole 
wardrobe. 

"He  thinks  we're  going  to  eat  his  blasted  bis- 
cuits on  him,  no,"  growls  Vairon. 


Good  Days  79 

You  spread  out  all  your  possessions :  cartridges, 
the  little  box  of  sugar,  the  tin  of  bully -beef .  The 
pack  that  gave  you  so  much  pain  and  grief  to  put 
together  has  to  be  emptied  to  the  very  bottom. 
Some  of  the  boys,  down  on  all  fours,  are  counting 
and  recounting  their  cartridges  with  an  uneasy  air. 

''Good  Lord!  I'm  one  packet  short.  .  .  . 
You've  not  got  one  to  spare,  have  you?" 

Our  whole  belongings  are  contained  in  this  little 
pile  of  duds  and  tinned  stuffs,  which  the  Captain 
tosses  over  with  the  end  of  his  cane  to  count  the 
bunches  of  cartridges.  He  goes  the  round  at  a 
good  pace,  then  planting  himself  face-to-face  with 
our  section,  he  enquires : 

"Anybody  got  a  fancy  to  be  cook?  The  fifth 
squad's  cook  is  relieved.  Who  would  like  to  take 
his  place?" 

At  once,  with  one  accord,  everybody  looked  at 
Bouffioux.  Two  hundred  jolly,  open  faces  are 
gazing  on  him,  enjoying  the  joke  beforehand.  The 
horse-dealer  has  turned  pink  about  the  gills,  but 
for  all  that  he  has  called  out : 

"Here!" 

"You  know  how  to  cook?"  asked  Cruchet. 

"I  was  a  cook  in  civilian  life.  Captain." 

At  that  the  whole  company  broke  into  laughter. 
Broucke  was  choking,  bent  double.  Even  the 
sergeants  standing  solemnly  at  attention  could  not 
contain  themselves;  and  Cruchet,  displeased  and 
scandalized,  had  to  give  the  order : 

"Fallout!     Dismiss!" 


8o  Wooden  Crosses 

When  I  went  down  next  into  the  kitchen,  where 
slabs  of  flooring  were  burning  with  gay  flames, 
the  late  cook,  black  as  a  sweep,  was  handing  over 
his  powers  and  authority  to  Boufiioux  in  front  of 
the  assembled  squad.  The  ceremony  was  a  very 
simple  one.  Fouillard,  who  was  stirring  the  stew 
with  a  fragment  of  a  vine-prop,  held  the  thing  out 
to  his  supplanter. 

"Here,  there's  your  ladle.  You've  nothing  to 
do  but  dish  up.  This  evening  you'll  have  to  make 
the  scoff.  .  .  .  Only  I'm  going  to  feed  off 
sausage,  for  it  strikes  me  you  look  about  as  much 
fit  to  be  a  cook  as  I  am  to  be  a  verger." 

An  uproar  full  of  laughter  greeted  the  cook. 
Bouffioux  placidly  took  off  his  overcoat. 

"Don't  you  worry  about  the  grub,"  he  answered 
mildly. 

Sulphart,  who  was  looking  at  him  with  strong 
fellow-feeling,  dug  him  in  the  ribs. 

"Hi,  old  bull-face,  they  say  you've  got  the 
shivers  for  going  up  the  trenches.  You  didn't 
happen  to  be  born  on  a  windy  day,  by  chance?'* 

Bouffioux  was  quietly  starting  to  stir  his  stew. 

"Don't  you  worry  yourself  about  the  wind, 
either.  ...  As  long  as  my  hair  curls  all  right 
and  my  belly  isn't  flapping  I'm  not  the  boy  to 
fash  myself." 


I  should  fancy  this  must  be  something  like  the 
way  savages  do  their  cooking. 


Good  Days  8i 

Down  on  his  knees  before  his  pot,  Botiffioux,  a 
trifle  drunk,  his  eyes  inclined  to  tears,  his  big  face 
shining  with  sweat  and  smeared  with  soot,  is 
blowing  himself  clean  out  of  breath  at  a  little  fire 
of  damp  wood  that  is  smoking,  smoking,  smoking, 
but  simply  refuses  to  break  into  flame.  Beside 
him,  holding  the  lid  by  way  of  a  shield,  Vairon 
is  stirring  the  mess  with  the  vine-prop,  whilst 
Broucke,  tattered  and  half -naked,  is  chopping  up 
extremely  red  and  raw  frozen  meat  with  a  wood 
axe,  shouting  Flemish  choruses  the  while.  You 
might  fancy  he  was  disjointing  an  explorer !  Then 
he  throws  the  frozen  gobbets  very  circumspectly 
on  to  a  potato-sack  as  muddy  as  a  straw  mat. 

All  about  the  hearth-place  the  boys  are  crowd- 
ing in,  their  hands  thrust  in  their  pockets,  with 
airs  of  prodigious  interest,  and  a  slight  smile  hover- 
ing round  the  corners  of  their  mouths.  One  would 
say  that  they  are  tightening  their  lips  to  keep  their 
delight  from  bursting  out:  from  their  glistening 
eyes  to  their  puffed-out  cheeks  you  feel  that  they 
are  just  ripe  to  break  into  shouts  of  merriment. 

Still  down  upon  his  knees,  Bouffioux  is  still  puff- 
ing and  blowing,  stopping  now  and  then  to  cough 
and  to  spit  out  flakes  of  soot. 

"Get  on  with  it,  my  buck,*'  Vairon  exhorts  en- 
couragingly; "it's  just  beginning  to  come  on  the 
boil." 

And  first  warning  the  boys  with  a  sly  wink,  he 
adds  with  a  perfectly  serious  air : 

"Would  you  like  to  know  what  I  think,  my  fine 


82  Wooden  Crosses 

laddie?  Well,  here  goes.  Your  mess  would  be 
better  if  you  were  to  chuck  a  bit  of  rice  to  it.  .  .  . 
That  would  thicken  the  gravy  for  you." 

The  other  lifts  his  face  with  its  eyes  running,  its 
lost  and  bewildered  look. 

"What.   .    .    .  rice?  ..." 

Like  that,  crumpled  up  on  his  knees,  his  eyes 
streaming  with  tears,  hairy  and  besmeary,  you 
could  imagine  he  is  begging  forgiveness  from  his 
murderers  in  the  hour  of  his  being  roasted  alive. 

"Naturally,  a  go  of  rice,"  perfidiously  approves 
Fouillard,  who  would  fain  give  Bouffioux  all  the 
benefit  of  his  experience.  "That  will  give  you 
something  smoother  and  more  fit  to  serve  up." 

The  boys  dig  one  another  in  the  ribs,  half -choked 
with  delight.  "Come  along,  then,  with  the  rice," 
consents  Boufhoux,  getting  up  painfully. 

He  goes  off  to  get  a  big  double  handful,  a  por- 
ringer full,  and  throws  it  into  the  pot.  Hidden 
behind  the  duty  corporal,  one  of  the  cooks  laughs 
into  his  handkerchief,  unable  to  hold  in  any 
longer. 

"Ah!  This  is  a  lark!  What  on  earth  are  the 
lads  of  the  fifth  going  to  have  to  swallow?   .    .    . " 

"More  wood,"  orders  Vairon,  "the  fire's  catch- 
ing. Don't  bring  any  branches,  they  make  too 
much  smoke." 

Without  changing  the  weapon  he  wields, 
Broucke  seizes  the  half  of  a  door,  props  it  up 
against  a  wall,  and  splits  it  with  one  stout  blow. 

"We'll  soon  have  to  pull  up  more  treads  out  of 


Good  Days  83 

the  stair,"  says  he,  "there's  no  more  wood  left  al- 
ready.   Anyhow,  that's  the  stuff  burns  best  of  all." 

And,  in  fact,  over  this  very  dry  wood  that  is 
burning  with  a  clear  steady  blaze,  the  mess  begins 
to  simmer  and  sing, 

* '  That's  the  style !  It's  getting  hot ! ' '  stammers 
the  horse-dealer.     "I'll  be  ready  up  to  time!" 

A  whole  ring  of  happy  faces  is  contemplating 
him ;  their  delight  is  turning  to  celestial  happiness. 

*'Do  you  know,  Bouffioux,"  now  cunningly 
suggests  the  duty  corporal;  "if  I  was  you,  I'd  pour 
a  good  couple  of  litres  of  wine  into  it  and  make 
something  like  a  broth  of  it." 

A  laugh  jerks  out.  Fouillard  can't  hold  in  any 
more.  But  the  others  approve  with  nodding  heads, 
solemn  as  a  council  of  state. 

But  this  time  Bouffioux  protests:  "There's  no 
sense  in  me  bunging  wine  into  it."  He  is  begin- 
ning to  recover  a  slight  glimmer  of  reason  in  the 
fumes  of  his  rotgut  brandy.  .  .  .  "You've 
made  me  stick  milk  into  it  already." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  Milk  first— 
you've  not  put  in  such  a  flood  of  it,  and  then  the 
vegetables  have  soaked  it  all  up.  I  tell  you 
you're  wrong." 

"Sure,  that  would  certainly  improve  it,"  is 
Vairon's  hypocritical  opinion. 

"But  I  haven't  got  any  pinard.  And  then  I 
can't  take  what's  for  the  squad." 

The  duty  corporal,  perceiving  that  the  bewil- 
dered cook  is  weakening  on  it,  has  a  noble  notion. 


84  Wooden  Crosses 

"Here,  1*11  slip  you  a  couple  of  litres  on  my  own. 
.  .  .  Broucke,  fetch  it  out  of  the  corner.  There 
are  six  full  buckets  and  three  bottles." 

Prompt  at  the  word,  the  ch'timi  lays  hold 
of  the  nearest  bucket — I  recognize  the  canvas 
bucket  in  which  I  made  my  toilet  this  morning — 
and  from  it  pours  out  four  good  cupfuls  by  guess- 
work. 

**That  will  be  topping!"  declares  Vairon,  al- 
ready smacking  his  lips  with  the  air  of  an  epicure. 

*'Do  you  think  so?"  asks  Bouffioux,  vaguely 
uneasy. 

** Certain!"  agree  all  the  others  in  chorus. 
"You've  put  nothing  bad  in  it.  .  .  .  Meat, 
sweet  potatoes,  milk  to  soften  it,  leeks,  wine, 
American  bacon  to  give  it  a  touch  of  fat,  rice  to 
thicken  the  sauce,  biscuits.  That's  all  good 
stuff." 

Bouffioux,  careworn  in  spite  of  everything, 
takes  off  the  lid  and  sniffs  at  the  mixture. 

"I  don't  know  if  it's  only  my  notion,  but  it 
smells  queer." 

**What  would  it  smell  queer  for?"  protests 
Sulphart,  who  wants  to  take  a  hand. 

And  pushing  the  others  aside,  he  comes  in  his 
turn  to  snuff  up  the  bouquet  of  our  dinner. 

** That's  an  appetizer! "  he  declares  with  scandal- 
ous effrontery.  "Aren't  you  going  to  have  a 
taste?" 

Vairon,  without  waiting  to  be  pressed,  digs  his 
cup  into  the  pot  and  brings  up  a  kind  of  thick, 


Good  Days  85 

mauveish  mush,  the  very  look  of  which  turns  the 
gorge.  He  tastes  it  slowly,  with  little  sips  like  a 
true  gourmet. 

"That's  topping!"  says  he.  "Bar  kid,  it's 
first-rate,  only  .  .  . " — he  seems  to  consider  for  a 
moment — "you  might  say  it  does  want.   .    .    ." 

"What!"  breaks  out  Bouffioux,  "you're  not 
going  to  say  it  wants  something  more  yet!" 

"I  don't  say  that;  only  to  my  thinking,  a  trifle, 
just  a  wee  trifle,  of  chocolate  grated  into  this  stew 
wouldn't  do  it  any  harm." 

Every  back  bends  double;  they  are  simply 
strangling  with  mirth,  they  choke,  they  are  clean 
bowled  over.  But  this  time  the  cook  stands  out. 
He  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  pulls  up  his  trous- 
ers with  both  hands,  with  the  gesture  of  a  real 
dandy. 

"Chocolate  in  stew,  such  a  thing  was  never 
heard  of.     You  take  me  for  a  silly  ass!   .    .    . " 

"In  stew,  that's  what  he  says,  the  blighter!" 
exclaims  Sulphart.  "To  start  with,  is  it  stew,  at 
all?  And  then — of  course  I  don't  care  a  hang,  I 
don't — but  if  you  were  so  confoundedly  up  to 
snuff  as  all  that,  it  wasn't  worth  while  to  come  and 
hunt  me  and  Broucke  out  to  help  you  to  get  the 
grub  ready.  Next  time  you  won't  get  me 
again.    .    .    ." 

The  whole  troop  approves  and  applauds  Sul- 
phart, and  Fouillard  in  three  crude  words  scarifies 
the  black  ungratefulness  of  his  successor. 

'  *  He  gives  you  a  bit  of  good  advice  and  you  tell 


86  Wooden  Crosses 


him  to  go  to  blazes.     You  are  the  last  word  in 


swme 


"Oh  no!  oh  no!"  brays  Vairon,  "he  knows  all 
about  everything  better  than  anybody  else." 

One  of  the  cooks  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"They're  all  the  same.  Can't  do  a  bally  thing 
and  don't  want  to  listen  to  anybody.  You  ask 
the  fellows  in  my  squad  if  I  don't  make  them 
chocolate  and  rice.    .    .    ." 

"But  this  isn't  rice,"  struggles  Bouffioux,  but 
less  strenuously,  "it's  stew." 

* '  That's  no  matter, ' '  puts  in  the  corporal.  * '  You 
shouldn't  be  so  damn  obstinate.  Chocolate  is 
always  a  good  thing.  .  .  .  To-night  I'm  com- 
ing to  feed  with  your  squad,  so  there,  you've  got 
to  put  my  name  in  the  pot.    .    .    . " 

This  time  the  defeated  horse-dealer  resigns 
himself  once  ihore  with  the  docility  of  a  drunken 
man.  Bringing  out  his  knife,  he  scrapes  two  bars 
of  chocolate  into  his  stew  as  it  boils,  whilst  behind 
his  back  Broucke  mimics  a  South  Sea  war-dance, 
flourishing  his  hatchet. 

Pell-mell  the  others  dash  outside,  choking  with 
laughter,  bending  double,  babbling  and  stutter- 
ing, and  leave  Bouffioux  all  alone  before  his 
pot. 

In  the  garden  fireplaces  are  sending  up  their 
smoke  along  the  foot  of  the  wall,  all  broidered  over 
with  house-leeks:  the  kitchen  for  all  the  squads. 
Here  is  soup,  there  a  stew.  The  cook  of  the  second 
squad  is  getting  up  a  fry. 


Good  Days  87 

"We'll  never  have  the  luck  to  get  hold  of  one 
like  that,"  says  Vairon  sorrowfully. 

Another,  planted  in  perplexity  before  his  fire, 
is  holding  in  his  big  black  paw  a  huge  chunk  of 
chilled  beef,  wrapped  up  in  its  gauze. 

"More  first-aid  packet,"  he  objurgated  in  dis- 
gust. "How  do  you  imagine  I'm  to  cook  that 
kind  of  muck,  I  ask  you?" 

And  as  he  looks  long  at  his  meat,  with  a  far-away 
air  of  absorption,  as  Hamlet  might  have  looked  at 
Yorick's  skull.  I  look  round  for  Sulphart.  There 
he  is,  whistling,  planted  at  the  foot  of  the  garden, 
his  thought  drifting  with  the  wind,  his  eyes  lost 
out  beyond  the  devastated  woods. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  Sulphart?" 

He  still  retains  his  dreamy  air. 

* '  I  was  thinking  how,  when  we  were  mobilized, 
as  I  left  the  factory,  I  dropped  my  tools  and  my 
overalls  at  the  wine-shop  opposite,  and  said  to  the 
owner:  'Put  them  on  one  side,  I'll  get  them  from 
you  again  one  of  these  Saturdays  on  my  way  home 
from  Berlin.'" 


CHAPTER  V 

VIGIL 

"Six  o'clock,  and  grub  not  along  yet.  .  .  .  No, 
it's  a  bit  too  thick,  anyhow!" 

Sulphart  can't  stay  in  his  place  any  longer. 
Having  produced  his  mess-tin  and  his  cup,  he 
goes  and  posts  himself  at  the  entrance  of  the 
zouaves'  trench,  where  the  fatigue  parties  come  in. 
Thus,  propped  up  on  his  two  long,  lean  legs,  with 
their  puttees  all  plastered  with  dried  mud,  you 
might  think  he  was  mounted  on  top  of  a  pile. 
Leaning  with  his  back  against  the  trench  side,  he 
is  looking,  furiously  looking. 

*'Talk  about  those  dung-merchants  of  cooks! 
Nothing  doing!  And  I'm  as  sharp  set  as  you 
like." 

But  nobody  listens,  nobody  pities  him.  Some 
are  reading,  others  are  sleeping  in  their  burrow; 
little  Belin  is  sewing  on  the  buttons  of  his  over- 
coat with  telephone-wire,  and  Hamel  is  chewing 
tobacco.  There  is  one  even  who,  spurred  on  by 
blank  laziness,  is  gazing  from  the  loophole.  This 
universal  spinelessness  disgusts  Sulphart  com- 
pletely. He  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  avenges 
himself  with  a  lusty  kick  at  a  casual  mess-tin  lying 

88 


viga  89 

about,  and,  perhaps  to  avoid  listening  to  his  rum- 
bHng  inside,  he  enters  upon  a  vicious  diatribe  in 
which  his  comrades,  the  cooks,  and  the  high  com- 
mand are  all  compared  to  pigs,  to  men  of  unmen- 
tionable practices,  and  more  particularly  to  straw 
defiled  by  cattle!  He  even  finds  courage  for  a 
sardonic  laugh. 

"Well  have  them!  Oh  yes!  .  .  .  Well  be 
having  lentils  like  stones  and  macaroni  in  cold 
water.  And  all  this  time  the  cooks  are  chin-wagging 
with  the  other  cows.   .    .   ." 

I  know  Sulphart  and  his  extravagant  opinions: 
**the  other  cows"  can  only  mean  to  limip  together 
all  those  persons  who  don't  go  into  the  trenches, 
without  distinction  as  to  sex,  costume,  or  rank. 
Thereafter  he  loses  himself  in  projects  for  army 
reforms  in  which  it  is  expressly  laid  down  and 
enacted  that  "every  bloke  is  to  be  cook,,  each  one 
in  turn,"  and  that  they  are  to  be  condemned  "to eat 
their  own  concoction  instead  of  stuffing  themselves 
with  good  fries,  because  like  that  they'll  put  a  bit 
more  zest  in  getting  up  the  grub  for  the  poor  poilus." 
Even  so  are  the  words  of  a  just,  impartial  man. 

But  the  others,  who  are  not  hungry  yet,  give 
him  not  the  shghtest  word  of  applause  or  approba- 
tion: Breval  is  writing,  Broucke  is  snoring, 
Vairon  is  whistling.  So  finally,  disgusted  for  good, 
Sulphart  holds  his  tongue,  takes  out  his  knife,  and 
begins  to  cut  into  sHces  the  hardened  mud  that 
weighs  down  his  big  boots.  At  that  moment  a 
familiar  sound  makes  him  lift  his  head. 


90  Wooden  Crosses 

''There  they  are!    Soup,  boys!" 

With  a  clinkum-clankum  of  bottles  and  cans,  it 
is,  in  fact,  the  mess  party  arriving.  Bouffioux 
walks  at  their  head,  with  a  big  chaplet  of  chunks 
of  bread  strung  on  a  piece  of  cord  slung  over  his 
shoulder,  a  dish  of  stew  in  one  hand,  and  in  the 
other  a  petrol-tin  than  now  holds  its  five  good 
litres  of  wine. 

All  the  cooks  follow  him  in  Indian  file,  laden 
with  bottles,  which  they  carry  two  by  two  slung 
from  a  pole,  potato-sacks  filled  out  with  nobody 
knows  what,  dishes  into  which  bits  of  earth  are 
dropping,  canvas  buckets,  lumps  of  bread  spitted 
on  to  a  piece  of  wood,  the  whole  rudimentary  para- 
phernalia of  a  bevy  of  negro  women  bringing  food 
to  their  tribesmen. 

Sulphart  has  immediately  spotted  the  can  that 
Bouffioux  is  carrying  on  his  hip. 

"Hooray,  there's  a  drop  of  brandy!  .    .    .'* 

Flat  against  the  side  of  the  trench,  which  crum- 
bles away,  or  getting  into  our  dug-outs,  we  let  the 
fatigue  go  by;  then  we  fiock  round  our  own  cook 
and  his  assistant,  who  have  put  their  burden  down. 
Eagerly  the  dishes  are  uncovered. 

''What  have  we  got  to  eat?" 

Everybody  throws  questions  all  at  the  same  time 
to  Bouffioux,  who  rubs  himself  down. 

"Have  you  got  the  letters?  Are  there  any  for 
me?" 

"Did  you  think  of  bringing  me  a  waxlight  and 
a  packet  of  baccy?" 


Vigil  91 

The  two  men  reply  quietly,  with  brief  phrases, 
and  with  a  curious  air  that  I  noticed  immediately. 

"It's  first-aid  packet,"  explains  Bouffioux,  **that 
was  the  only  meat  they  gave  out.  I've  made  rice 
with  chocolate,  it  ought  to  be  top  hole.  .  .  .  The 
can  of  wine  is  chock  full.  .  .  .  My  mate  here 
has  the  letters." 

But  he  says  all  this  in  a  thoroughly  unnatural 
voice,  with  a  preoccupied  air  that  Vairon  in  his 
turn  tumbles  to  in  the  end. 

"You've  got  on  a  very  funny  mug  about  it,"  he 
says  to  them  politely.   .    .    .     "What's  up?" 

Bouffioux  wags  his  head,  and  his  big  face,  so 
shiny  that  I  have  long  suspected  him  of  washing 
himself  with  a  piece  of  bacon  fat,  almost  manages 
to  look  concerned. 

"  One  can  never  be  at  ease,"  he  replies,  as  though 
regretfully.  "You  are  to  attack  the  day  after 
to-morrow." 

A  short  spell  of  silence  fell  on  us:  just  long 
enough  for  our  hearts  to  go  pit-pat.  Several  have 
turned  pale  all  at  once;  there  are  certain  almost 
imperceptible  Httle  nervous  tricks — a  nostril  con- 
tracting, an  eyehd  fluttering.  The  cooks  are 
staring  at  us,  still  shaking  their  heads.  We  look 
at  them,  willing  to  disbeHeve.  Then  with  one 
single  accord  we  crowd  round  them,  and  questions 
fly  thick  and  fast: 

"Are  you  sure?  But  we  were  going  to  be  reUeved 
to-morrow.  .  .  .  Impossible!  it's  a  buzz.  .  .  . 
Who  was  it  told  you  that?  ..." 


92  Wocxien  Crosses 

Bouffioux,  strong  in  the  authentic  news  he 
brings,  simply  turns  about  to  his  assistant: 

"Isn't  it  quite  true?'' 

The  other  confirms  it,  in  tones  of  distress. 

**You  can  easily  imagine  nobody  was  going  to 
stuff  you  up  with  a  tale  of  that  kind.  It's  as  true 
and  as  certain  as  anything  can  be." 

Broucke  has  waked  up  by  himself  and  come  out 
from  his  shelter.  Sulphart  has  set  down  his  mess- 
tin,  in  which  he  was  just  going  to  heat  up  Gilbert's 
tin  of  pork  and  beans,  and  Breval  has  folded  the 
letter  he  was  reading.  We  listen  with  just  a  little 
pang  in  the  chest. 

**  There  are  the  niggers  lying  at  Fismes,"  ex- 
plains Bouffioux;  **the  village  is  stuffed  with  them, 
the  whole  Moroccan  Division.  .  .  .  The  di- 
visional hospital  orderlies  have  arrived  at  Jon- 
ch6ry.  They've  been  brought  along  in  lorries. 
...  It  appears  that  the  second  corps  is  to  come 
from  Lorraine.  .  .  .  And  then  artillery  as  well: 
big  guns — ^you  ought  to  see  those.   .    .    ." 

A  whole  army  rises  up  out  of  their  disjointed 
phrases:  cavalry,  negroes,  aviators,  zouaves,  en- 
gineers. It  seems  even  as  if  the  Legion  would  be 
in  it,  but  that  Bouffioux  wouldn't  swear  to;  it  was 
the  paymaster's  cyclist  who  has  heard  it  on  the 
telephone.  In  short,  everything  has  been  foreseen 
and  prepared :  the  stretcher-bearers  to  pick  us  up, 
and  the  Chaplains  to  say  the  Mass  for  the  dead. 

For  a  moment  I  have  remained  nonplussed,  my 
smile,  forgotten,  still  on  my  lips  like  a  banner  of 


Vigil  93 

the  fourteenth  of  July  that  no  one  has  remembered 
to  take  down.  "What,  must  still  others  go  and 
play  the  madman  in  that  plain?  Well,  then .  .  . " 
And  my  smile  has  come  down  itself  of  its  own 
accord. 

The  boys  are  not  laughing  either,  now;  only  by 
turning  their  head  they  would  be  able  to  see, 
through  the  loophole,  the  men  of  the  last  attack 
still  lying  in  the  deep  grass.  No  one  brings  a 
medallion  out  of  a  pocket  to  kiss  it  secretly;  no 
one  cries  either,  as  in  the  story-books:  **At  last! 
We  are  going  to  come  out  of  our  holes.**  For  an 
historic  word,  Sulphart  says  simply:  *'Ah!  les 
tantes!  .  .  .'*  and  that  without  even  knowing 
himself  whom  the  compliment  is  intended  for. 

Dumb,  we  listen  to  the  soup-fetchers,  who  talk 
in  floods,  one  taking  up  the  tale  from  the  other. 
They  are  shuffling  the  troops,  they  install  the  ar- 
tillery in  position,  they  make  arrangements  for 
supplies,  they  study  the  coming  of  the  reserves. 
.    .    .     They  talk  on,  talk  on. 

They  even  give  so  many  exact  details  that  a 
slight  doubt  begins  to  steal  into  my  mind.  I  have 
heard  so  many  of  these  kitchen  tales  which  the 
cooks  pick  up  behind  the  lines  with  the  credulity 
of  an  aboriginal  Redskin,  and  bring  up  to  us  in 
the  trenches  at  night  along  with  the  rice  and  the 
wine. 

In  the  mornings,  when  the  rations  are  given  out, 
they  exchange  their  news,  come  from  mysterious 
sources:  what  the  paymaster's  cyclist  caught  and 


94  Wooden  Crosses 

misunderstood ;  what  a  telephone  operator  thought 
he  overheard;  what  a  brigade  orderly  told  to  the 
Colonel's  driver.  All  that  is  brought  together, 
commented  on,  chewed  over,  surmise  follows  sur- 
mise, they  make  their  deductions  and  make  up  a 
little  so  that  it  may  run  the  better.  Now  it's  fin- 
ished, and  the  cook's  report  is  quite  ready.  So 
in  the  evening,  the  trenches  learn  that  the  regi- 
ment has  the  route  for  Morocco,  that  the  Crown 
Prince  is  dead,  that  Joffre  has  killed  Sarrail  with 
one  stroke  of  his  sabre,  that  we  are  ordered  to 
rest  in  Paris,  that  the  Pope  has  imposed  peace,  or 
that  the  observer  in  the  sausage  balloon  has  been 
shot  because  he  was  found  to  be  a  Field- Marshal 
in  the  German  Army.  No  one  has  any  pity  on 
that  fellow:  he  is  shot  at  least  once  every  blessed 
month. 

Nobody  ever  has  any  doubt,  especially  when  the 
messenger  tells  you,  on  the  eve  of  some  big  stunt, 
that  you  are  to  be  held  in  reserve  as  artillery  sup- 
ports. The  next  day  you  are  invariably  in  the 
thick  of  the  barbed  wire  and  fighting  for  your  life 
like  a  crew  of  Red  Indians ;  but  you  have  something 
else  to  do  than  to  blame  the  impostures  of  the 
cooks,  and  the  very  next  time  you  will  believe  them 
just  the  same.  Since  the  war  started.  Truth  has 
been  coming  out  of  the  saucepans;  so  much  the 
better  for  her,  anyway,  poor  thing! — she's  not  so 
chilly  there  as  in  her  well. 

All  these  tales,  all  this  humbug,  little  by  little 
come  back  to  me,  and  gradually  make  me  some- 


VigU  95 

what  skeptical.  I  still  bend  an  ear  to  Bouffioux, 
who  is  now  discussing  the  attack  from  its  purely 
strategic  aspect;  and  most  politely,  careful  not  to 
vex  him,  I  put  the  question  to  him: 

"I  say  now,  old  boy,  are  you  quite  sure  about  it, 
anyhow?    It's  not  just  a  kitchen  yam?" 

The  sweating  horse-coper  suddenly  has  stopped 
arguing,  half  a  word  still  left  on  his  lips,  abso- 
lutely dumbfounded.  ...  I  must  have  annoyed 
him.  For  two  seconds  he  remains  gape-mouthed, 
too  indignant  to  make  any  reply.  Then  he  goes 
red  about  the  gills,  he's  going  to  burst  out.   .    .    . 

But  now  he  recovers  himself.  He  simply  pulls 
a  scornful  face,  stoops  down,  picks  up  his  dish,  and 
declares  with  all  the  dignity  of  a  mortally  insulted 
apostle : 

"That's  all  right;  I'm  a  silly  ass.  Everything 
I've  been  telling  you  is  just  stuff  and  nonsense. 
Only  you'll  see  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

He  tries  to  push  the  boys  away  and  go  off,  but 
the  others  close  up  together,  and  so  as  to  keep  him 
with  them,  they  most  cowardly  take  sides  against 
me. 

"Don't  listen  to  him.  .  .  .  Tell  us  now. 
...  Is  it  true  that  the  third  battalion  is  to 
stay  in  reserve?  .  .  .  Why  that  one  rather 
than  any  other?  .  .  .  Wliere  are  we  starting 
from?  .  .  .  Are  they  going  to  attack  the 
square  wood  too?" 

They  are  holding  him  back  with  both  hands, 
like  the  poor  people  clinging  fast  to  Saint  Vincent 


96  Wooden  Crosses 

de  Paul's  robe.  Out  of  sheer  goodness  of  heart 
Bouffioux  consents  in  spite  of  everything  to  ladle 
out  the  last  of  his  yarns,  and  professing  to  forgive 
my  insults,  he  instructs  the  boys,  while  expressly 
and  frankly  dropping  ''that  other  nut."  That's 
me,  the  ''other  nut." 

Without  troubling  myself,  I  move  away  and 
throw  myself  down  on  all  fours,  as  if  I  was  about 
to  beg  for  forgiveness.  But  no,  I  will  respect  my 
uniform !  I  slip  into  my  dug-out  head-first,  and  I 
rummage  about  in  my  satchel  looking  for  a  box  of 
preserved  food.  I  fetch  out  my  cooker  with  its 
solidified  alcohol,  my  mess-tin  full  of  dirty  water 
most  cherishingly  kept  since  yesterday  morning, 
and  planting  myself  on  a  sandbag,  I  get  ready 
my  bain-marie. 

Stooping  over  the  blue  flame,  I  assume  an  air  of 
absorption,  so  as  to  deceive  my  little  world;  but  I 
am  slyly  listening  to  the  horse-dealer,  who  is  still 
going  on  talking.  To  mortify  me,  he  rakes  up 
details  he  had  forgotten,  new  particulars  of  which 
the  least  one  would  alone  be  enough  to  confound 
me.    And  like  a  chorus,  he  repeats : 

"Maybe  that's  all  gossiping  nonsense,  that 
too.   ..." 

So  much  assurance  begins  in  the  long  run  to 
trouble  me.  Supposing  it  was  true,  all  the  same; 
.  .  .  they  don't  look  as  if  they  were  pulHng  our 
legs.  My  head  down,  I  observe  them  artfully 
over  my  mess-tin,  in  which  the  water  is  now 
beginning  to  sing.    The  whole  squad  is  grouped 


Vigil  97 

about  them,  plainly  agitated.  Demachy  alone  re- 
mains placid,  and  listens  to  their  noisy  talking 
with  his  habitual  little  smile,  mocking,  a  trifle  bit- 
ter, the  smile  of  a  spoilt  child  that  nothing  can 
really  please  now. 

Seeing  me  begin  to  eat,  the  boys  remember  sud- 
denly that  their  food  is  waiting. 

**It  will  be  getting  cold,"  remarks  Broucke 
sagely.  And  he  fills  his  mess-tin,  still  greasy  from 
the  last  stew  with  haricot  beans  still  sticking  to 
the  bottom.  After  him  everybody  serves  himself, 
scrupulously  fair.  Then  in  a  ring,  everyone  hold- 
ing out  his  tin  cup,  we  surround  Breval,  who 
divides  the  wine.  While  he  pours  it  out  drop  by 
drop,  Sulphart  stethoscopes  the  can  of  brandy. 
He  gives  vent  to  a  plaintive  cry,  a  cry  of  grief 
and  indignation. 

"Ah,  it's  not  even  full!  ..." 

And  flourishing  the  can  as  an  overwhelming  wit- 
ness to  his  plaint,  he  bellows: 

"That  much  brandy  for  twelve  men  the  night 
before  an  attack !  We  needn't  ask  who  it  is  that's 
giving  our  poor  health  a  knock.  .  .  .  Well, 
then,  let  them  ask  for  volunteers  another  time, 
they  can  just  go  and  .    .    .  " 

"That's  the  correct  amount,"  says  Bouffioux 
stoutly.    "Not  quite  a  full  can  to  each  squad." 

"Well,  then,  you  go  up  to  the  big  house  and 
see  at  the  officers'  mess  if  they  haven't  each  got 
their  full  pint.  After  that  we're  not  to  give  a  fig 
for  the  Boches?     No,  let  me!   .    .    .     Here,  I 


98  Wooden  Crosses 

don't  want  any  of  their  brandy,  they  can  stick  it 
where  the  monkey  .    .    ." 

And  he  hurls  the  can  in  disgust  up  on  to  the 
edge  of  the  parapet — after  carefully  making  sure 
that  the  cork  was  well  rammed  home. 

The  bottles  are  emptied,  the  dishes  soaked  in 
gravy,  Bouffioux  and  his  assistant  collect  their 
utensils,  carrying  away  also  a  handful  of  postcards 
scribbled  off  in  a  hurry. 

' ' Au  revoir,  boys ! ' '  the  big  cook  wishes  us.  .  .  . 
"Don't  worry  about  it;  come  along;  there  will  be 
lots  of  good  luck  in  front  of  you  yet.  .  .  . 
What  I  wish  every  one  of  you  is  a  nice  little  wound 
with  three  weeks'  cosy  in  a  hospital.    .    .    ." 

These  prayers,  which  were  delivered  in  a  most 
cordial,  kindly  tone,  have  made  Fouillard  jump. 
With  a  particularly  wicked  eye  he  fixes  the  ruddy- 
faced  horse-coper,  the  inheritor  of  his  erstwhile 
job. 

"You  won't  have  one  yourself,  a  nice  little 
wound,"  he  shoots  at  him  in  his  worn,  consump- 
tive voice.  '  *  It  well  becomes  you  to  chatter  about 
the  attack,  you  that  have  always  managed  to 
plant  yourself  down  in  shelter,  you  skulker!" 

Bouffioux  has  turned  about. 

"You  listen  to  me,  you  there.  ...  If  I  had 
to  do  an  attack,  I  wouldn't  have  the  wind  up 
more  than  you.  ...  I've  done  the  retreat, 
.    .    .   now  then!" 

"Aye,  on  the  back  of  a  lorry." 

"Here,  you're  a  regular  mud-walloper,"  retorts 


VigU  99 

the  other,  to  cut  it  short;  "I'd  rather  not  argue 
with  you." 

And  he  goes  off  disdainfully,  with  a  last,  "Good 
luck,  boys!"  to  join  up  with  the  procession  of 
cooks  going  back  by  the  zouaves*  trench.  For  a 
short  while  nothing  further  can  be  heard,  only  the 
sound  of  lapping  mouths,  every  head  bowed  over 
the  mess-tins  like  a  cab-horse  deep  in  his  nosebag. 

"That's  all  right,  he  gave  you  a  nasty  one," 
mocks  Papa  Hamel,  who  is  gorging  himself  with 
chocolate  rice. 

"You  shut  your  head!"  replies  Fouillard,  his 
scanty  beard  fat  with  his  soup.  * '  I  had  a  notion  in 
my  own  head  that  we  were  going  to  attack." 

"Well,  if  we  do  attack,  we'll  see,"  cries  Gilbert. 
"Every  bullet  doesn't  kill." 

Squatting  in  his  dug-out  like  a  shopman  in  a 
booth,  little  Belin  applauds  him: 

"What,  they  're  not  such  terrific  fighters,  the 
Boche  aren't.  Not  worth  while  to  worry  about  it 
beforehand." 

The  whole  trench  now  knows  the  news;  plate  in 
hand,  everybody  is  jabbering,  and  rumours  run 
from  squad  to  squad.  It  appears  that  the  pioneers 
are  to  come  in  this  very  night  to  get  ready  the 
scaling  ladders  for  the  attack.  Small  thirty-seven 
millimetre  guns  have  to  be  put  in  place,  and  bomb- 
throwers  as  well.  The  first  company  is  to  make 
one  big  patrol. 

All  this  begins  to  shake  my  opinion;  and  yet, 
while  sharing  my  cheese  with  Gilbert,  I  endeavour 


loo  Wooden  Crosses 

to  convince  him  that  we  are  not  going  to  attack 
at  all.  Sulphart  is  giving  tongue  loudly,  with  his 
mouth  still  full.  He  is  not  now  thinking  about 
the  attack  at  all,  but  only  of  the  gross  injustices 
that  surround  him  on  every  hand.  While  he 
cleans  his  plate  with  a  handful  of  grass,  he  scourges 
the  infamy  of  General  Headquarters,  that  scandal- 
ously favours  "the  blokes  in  the  third  battalion 
who  never  have  a  go  at  it,'*  and  doesn't  even  give 
fighting  men  the  brandy  to  which  they  have  an 
inalienable  right.  He  utters  his  denunciations 
under  the  very  nose  of  Breval,  the  only  non-com- 
missioned officer  present,  and  in  any  case  quite 
innocent  in  the  matter  of  this  refusal  of  justice; 
and  Berthier,  the  sergeant,  has  to  disturb  himseK 
and  come  on  the  scene  to  make  him  shut  up. 

Men  are  going  round  and  about  in  the  trench, 
like  a  village  about  its  main  streets,  after  the  even- 
ing meal.  There  is  talking,  arguing,  and  some 
nervousness.    Somebody  calls  me  by  name. 

"Jacques!" 

It  is  Bouland,  one  of  the  Colonel's  cyclists. 
^  "Well?" 

"It's  quite  true;  we're  attacking.  .  .  .  I've 
just  been  to  get  two  thousand  cigars  out  of  the 
supplies  department." 

I  raised  my  head  sharply.  What !  .  .  .  Cigars 
— cigars  with  a  band  round  them?  This  time  I  am 
convinced,  we  are  certainly  going  to  attack. 

Hamel,  though  his  mind  is  barred  against  any 
subtle  deduction,  is  not  mistaken  about  it  either. 


Vigil  loi 

*'He  was  right,  then,  all  the  same,  that  mer- 
chant," he  sighs. 

Then,  since  the  true  philosopher  must  consider 
only  the  good  side  of  the  worst  things,  he  adds: 

"Seeing  that  you  don't  smoke,  you'll  give  me 
yours,  eh?    I'll  keep  it  in  reserve." 

Absently,  with  a  kind  of  constraint  in  my  heart, 
I  come  back  to  the  boys. 

Vairon,  mounted  on  the  firing  step,  is  eyeing 
through  the  loophole  the  big  desolate  field,  riddled 
with  shell-holes  like  so  many  rents,  in  which  the 
last  attack  broke  up.  You  can  count  the  dead 
men,  lying  scattered  in  the  yellow  grass.  They 
have  fallen  as  they  charged,  face  forward;  some  of 
them,  fallen  on  their  knees,  seem  still  ready  to 
leap  on  again.  Many  are  wearing  the  red  trousers 
that  belonged  to  the  beginning  of  the  war.  One 
of  them  can  be  seen  leaning  up  against  a  small 
stack,  who,  with  his  shrivelled  fingers,  holds  his 
coat  wide  open  as  though  to  show  us  the  hole  that 
killed  him.  Vairon  looks  long,  dreamy,  pensive, 
without  budging,  and  now  he  murmurs: 

"So  we  have  to  go  and  reinforce  the  boys  out 
in  front  there." 


As  I  am  to  take  the  second  watch,  I  go  back  into 
the  shelter  to  get  a  little  rest.  Breval  is  there 
already;  he  is  writing.  At  full  length  on  his  can- 
vas, his  hands  under  the  nape  of  his  neck,  Gilbert 
lies  pondering,  dreaming.    I  get  ready  my  corner. 


102  Wodden  Crosses 

and  stretch  myself  with  my  satchel  for  a  pillow. 
Nothing  can  now  be  heard  but  our  measured 
breathing  and  the  shrill  squeak-squeaking  of  the 
rats  among  the  beams  of  the  roof. 

Before  long  the  boys  come  in,  driven  by  the 
cold  that  falls  over  the  trench  with  the  coming  of 
the  night.  Another  candle  is  lighted,  with  a  bayo- 
net-hilt for  candlestick,  and  squatting  in  a  ring 
about  the  Hght,  they  set  to  to  play  banker.  But 
the  game  soon  comes  to  an  end:  their  hearts  are 
not  in  it  to-night. 

"I  thought  we  would  be  going  to  attack,"  said 
Lemoine,  the  first  to  speak. 

Their  momentary  hot  fit  has  subsided;  they 
speak  of  the  attack  with  resignation — almost  with 
indifference. 

"What!  We'll  carry  it  again  all  right,  the 
wood,"  cries  Broucke,  who  for  a  wonder  is  not 
sleeping  yet.     "We've  done  worse  than  that." 

Breval  has  sealed  his  letter.  By  the  light  of 
the  candle  I  can  see  his  lean  chin  quiver. 

"If  only  after  it's  all  over  they  would  send  us 
back  home!"  he  sighs. 

Home!  Go  back  home!  .  .  .  Every  face 
lights  up  instantaneously,  their  mouths  part  in 
laughter  like  the  mouths  of  children  when  you 
talk  to  them  about  Christmas. 

"I  say,  Lemoine,"  asks  Sulphart,  sitting  on  the 
white  wood  parapet  that  serves  him  as  a  stool; 
"here's  supposing  they  said  to  you,  'You  can  go 
back  home,  only  you'll  have  to  go  walking  back- 


Vigil  103 

wards  the  whole  way,  with  a  big  log  of  wood  on 
yotir  back  on  top  of  your  full  kit,  and  no  shoes* — 
would  you  go?" 

"Indeed  and  surely  I  would,"  accepts  Lemoine 
without  an  instant's  hesitation.  "And  you,  if 
they  said  to  you,  'The  war  will  be  all  over  as  far 
as  you're  concerned,  only  you're  never  to  have  the 
right  to  drink  neither  wine  nor  brandy  for  the 
rest  of  your  natural  life,'  what  would  you  say  to 
that?" 

Sulphart  reflects  for  a  moment;  there  must  be 
some  hidden  conflict  waging  deep  down  in  his  soul. 

**Ooh,  .  .  .  I  could  always  drink  cider,  couldn't 
I?  .  .  .  And  then  on  the  strict  q.t.  that  wouldn't 
prevent  me  from  putting  a  little  drop  of  old  rum 
down  my  neck?    I  should  say  so." 

And  there  they  are,  embarked  upon  insane  sup- 
positions, absurd  hypotheses  that  keep  them  talk- 
ing for  hours  and  hours,  soothed  and  charmed  by 
fabulous  hopes.  The  cage  is  open;  the  strangest 
most  unimaginable  dreams  come  forth  and  take 
wing.  They  concoct  impossible  bargainings,  stu- 
pefying conditions  that  the  General  comes  and 
lays  before  them  in  person — tit  for  tat — against 
their  freedom.  And,  however  formidable  the  con- 
ditions might  be,  they  always  say  yes. 

From  supposition  to  supposition  they  at  last 
come  to  offering  a  limb,  sacrificing  a  piece  of  their 
bacon  to  save  the  rest.  Everybody  chooses  his 
wound — an  eye,  a  hand,  or  a  leg. 

"As  for  me,"  says  Broucke  as  he  scratches  him- 


104  Wooden  Crosses 

self,  "  I'll  give  my  left  foot.  .  .  .  I  don't  really 
need  it,  my  foot,  for  walking ....  And  then, 
far  better  get  home  dot-and-go-one  than  never  get 
home  at  all." 

''I'd  rather  have  an  eye  out,  I  would,"  says 
Fouillard.  ''What's  the  good  of  it,  anyway,  to 
have  two  eyes?  You  can  see  just  as  well  with 
one.  .  .  .  You  can  even  see  better,  and  the 
proof  is  that  you  shut  one  to  aim  better." 

They  argue  it  out  soberly,  reasonably,  each  one 
setting  forth  his  own  preference,  and  with  little 
plain,  honest  phrases  they  cut  into  their  live  flesh, 
they  quite  placidly  and  coolly  chop  up  their 
bodies  limb  by  limb,  choosing  the  spot  with  the 
utmost  care. 

"No,  your  eye,  that's  something  that  mustn't 
be  touched,"  says  Sulphart,  who  has  his  principles. 
"A  good  leg,  that's  got  it  just  enough,  that's  the 
best  of  the  lot.  Only  seeing  that  if  you  wait  for 
the  stretcher-bearers  you're  sure  to  be  left  in  the 
leap,  this  is  how  I  should  manage." 

He  takes  two  levels,  with  their  breeches  swathed 

deep  in  flannel,  and  setting  the  butt  under  his 

armpits,   turning  them  into  crutches,   he  starts 

hopping  through  the  shelter,  one  leg  dead  and 

hanging,  moaning  in  a  shrill  voice: 

"Hi,  there!     Hi,  there!     Let  me  pass,  boys! 
J) 

He  has  most  meticulously  staged  the  whole 
scene  of  his  evacuation  down  to  the  very  pitch  of 
his  cries,  yelping  and  plaintive  at  the  same  time. 


Vigil  105 

But  all  this  is  not  enough  to  convince  the  obstinate 
Broucke. 

"Still  and  all  it's  the  foot  that  would  be  best." 

*'Well,  to  my  way  of  thinking,"  says  Papa 
Hamel,  **I  don't  want  to  leave  them  neither  foot 
nor  paw  nor  anything.  .  .  .  And  the  Boche 
that  means  to  bag  me,  he'll  have  to  make  no 
second  shots  at  it:  if  he  does,  I'll  drive  his  belly 
in  for  him,  like  the  one  at  Courcy." 

They  held  their  tongues,  pensive.  Do  they 
catch  a  glimpse  of  themselves  already,  running 
across  the  plain,  head  down,  stooping  their  backs 
under  the  whistling  death? 

Sulphart  and  Vairon  are  talking  in  a  murmur. 

"For  me,  I've  marked  down  a  shell-hole  close 
by  the  river.  ...  If  I  see  the  attack's  going 
wrong,  I'm  going  to  plant  myself  down  in  it  and 
wait  for  night." 

"If  they  poimd  their  trenches  for  them  there 
will  be  pickings  to  be  had.  .  .  .  It's  a  long  time 
now  that  I've  been  wanting  to  have  a  Boche  field- 
glass,  or  a  revolver.  .  .  .  After  Montmirail  I 
sold  one  for  twenty  francs  to  a  fellow  in  a  motor." 

Breval  emerges  from  his  sour  and  dejected  medi- 
tation. 

"That's  all  very  fine,"  he  says  as  he  unrolls  his 
puttees,  **we  don't  all  come  back  again  out  of  it. " 

Close  to  him  Broucke  is  pulling  off  his  boots. 

*  *  You  know  very  well  that  there's  an  order  not  to 
take  our  boots  off.    Suppose  there  was  an  alarm  ? ' ' 

"I'll  get  there  in  my  stocking  soles,"  replies  the 


io6  Wooden  Crosses 

ch'timi  easily,  as  he  lays  down  his  tousled  flaxen 
head  upon  his  satchel. 

Hamel  and  Vairon,  who  have  dug-outs  of  their 
very  own,  now  go  out  from  the  shelter,  and  under 
the  canvas  as  they  raise  it  to  go  there  comes  in  a 
touch  of  the  cold  and  darkness  of  the  night. 

"It's  going  to  be  hard  and  nippy  again,"  says 
Fouillard  as  he  pulls  his  woollen  helmet  well  over 
his  head.  * '  You'll  wake  me  up,  will  you  ?  and  we'll 
take  a  bite  together." 

I  have  no  mind  to  sleep.  I  should  barely  have 
time  just  to  close  my  eyes.  I  take  hold  of  my  po- 
tato-bag, and  I  slip  my  feet  and  legs  into  it  to  keep 
them  from  feeling  too  cold.  Then,  with  my 
blanket  pulled  up  to  my  very  eyes,  my  hands 
tucked  into  my  armpits,  I  drowsily  eye  the  flame 
of  the  candle  leaping  and  flickering  at  the  point  of 
death.  I  recognize  the  voice  of  Sulphart,  whom  a 
fit  of  impotent  fury  will  not  allow  to  get  to  sleep. 

"What  really  sticks  in  my  gizzard,"  he  is  ex- 
plaining to  little  Belin,  "is  going  to  have  my  mug 
split  just  to  take  three  rotten  fields  of  beet  that 
are  no  good  to  anybody.  .  .  .  What  do  you 
suppose  they're  going  to  do  with  their  silly  little 
bit  of  wood  that  lies  in  a  hollow?  It's  just  for 
the  pleasure  of  knocking  folk  over.    What?  ..." 

The  redhead's  monologue  must  be  lulling  the 
boy  off  to  sleep  like  a  mother's  singing,  and  his 
slumbering  voice  replies: 

"Don't  you  try  to  understand  it;  don't  you  be 
trying  to  understand." 


Vigil  107 

The  other  voices  have  bumbled  on  for  a  minute, 
and  then  have  dropped  silent.  They  are  asleep 
now.  Sitting  up  on  my  elbow,  I  look  at  them; 
it's  not  easy  to  make  them  out,  I  guess  at  them 
rather.  They  are  sleeping,  with  no  nightmares, 
like  any  other  night.  Their  respirations  sound  all 
confused  together;  heavy  measured  breathing,  the 
sharp-sounding  breath  of  sick  men,  even  sighings 
of  a  child.  Then  it  seems  that  I  hear  them  no 
longer,  that  they  also  lose  themselves  in  the  black- 
ness, just  as  though  they  were  dead.  .  .  .  No, 
I  can  no  longer  bear  to  see  them  as  they  sleep. 
The  crushing  slumber  that  wafts  them  away  is 
too  much  like  the  other  sleep.  Those  relaxed  or 
contracted  faces,  those  faces  the  colour  of  the 
earth,  I  have  seen  their  fellows  lying  around  the 
trenches,  and  the  bodies  have  the  same  postures 
as  those  that  are  sleeping  eternally  out  in  the 
naked  fields.  Their  brown  blanket  is  spread  over 
them  as  in  the  day  when  two  comrades  will  carry 
them  off  stiff  and  stark.  Dead  men,  all  dead 
men.  .  .  .  And  I  dare  not  sleep,  afraid  to  be 
dead  like  them. 

Suddenly  Breval  has  waked  up  with  a  hoarse 

cry  and  sits  upright,  all  scared  and  bewildered. 

For  a  moment  he  remains  sitting,  propped  up  on 

his  stiff  arms,  not  yet  shaken  loose  from  his  bad 

dream.    He  forces  a  laugh. 

"No  humbug,  I  was  dreaming  that  the  Boches 
»» 

A  voice  growls.    The  others  have  not  awaked. 


io8  Wooden  Crosses 

"What,  has  nobody  blown  out  the  candle?  I 
don't  care  a  curse,  I'll  leave  it.   ..." 

He  stretches  down,  curls  up,  goes  off  to  sleep 
again.  The  candle,  at  its  last  gasp,  suddenly 
lights  up  the  shelter  with  a  towering  flame — the 
very  last.   .    .    .     All  is  darkness.   .    .    . 

I  am  envying  them  now.  They  are  so  comfort- 
able here,  in  shelter,  feet  warm,  limbs  relaxed. 
Sleep,  .  .  .  the  day  after  to-morrow?  Hang  it! 
that's  still  a  long  way  off.   .    .    . 

Someone  has  pulled  away  the  canvas: 

"Jacques!  .    .    .     Fouillard!  ...     It's  time." 

Already !  I  shake  Fouillard,  who  grumbles ;  our 
hands  fumble  in  the  hunt  for  our  rifles.  We  sally 
forth.  How  cold  it  is!  The  comrade  who  has 
waked  me  is  chattering  with  his  teeth  under  his 
blanket  which  he  is  wearing  like  a  hood. 

"Nothing  fresh?" 

"No.  ...  A  patrol  is  just  going  out.  .  .  . 
Good-night." 

There  is  no  seeing  anything ;  in  the  obscurity  of 
the  trench  you  can't  distinguish  the  gabions  of  the 
sleepy  lookouts.  I  slip  my  rifle  into  the  loophole. 
Three  hours  to  spend  here !  .    .    . 

Nothing  can  be  seen  ten  paces  beyond  the  para- 
pet. The  eye  searches  the  darkness  up  to  the 
tangled  network  of  wire  in  which  the  stakes  lean 
this  way  and  that  like  staggering  drunken  men, 
and  then  loses  itself.  Numb  and  stupid,  I  go  on 
looking  without  seeing.     I  stare  into  the  night  and 


Vigil  109 

grow  cold.  The  cold  is  running  along  my  arms 
like  an  icy  wind,  and  soaks  into  me.  Then  I  begin 
to  dance  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  while  I  clutch 
my  blanket  tight  about  me. 

The  moment  you  go  out  from  your  shelter  the 
cold  starts  nibbling  your  chin,  and  stings  in  your 
nose  like  a  pinch  of  snuff — in  fact,  it  rather  ex- 
hilarates and  pleases.  Then  it  turns  nasty,  gnaws 
at  your  ears,  tortures  the  tips  of  your  fingers, 
crawls  and  creeps  up  your  sleeves,  down  your  col- 
lar, through  your  flesh,  and  becomes  ice,  freezing 
you  to  the  very  entrails.  Shivering,  you  dance, 
dance.   .    .    . 

A  long  trampling  draws  near,  a  clatter  of 
weapons.  It  is  the  patrol  just  going  out.  The 
men  carry  huge  wire-clippers  hung  round  their 
necks,  as  the  Swiss  cows  wear  their  bells. 

"Talk  about  a  stunt!"  says  the  first  one  as  he 
clambers  up.  * '  Every  man  jack  has  to  bring  back 
a  bit  of  Boche  wire  to  show  he's  been  there.  Here 
goes  for  a  sample!" 

Heavily  they  scale  the  parapet,  hunt  for  the  gap, 
and  move  off  with  humping  backs.  Silence  de- 
scends once  more  on  our  darkened  ditch.  Men 
still  awake  are  talking  in  low  tones.  From  under 
a  tent-covering  steals  a  thin  shaft  of  light :  some- 
body must  be  making  a  jorum  of  hot  wine. 

From  the  shelters  can  be  heard  arise  the  sound 
of  the  sleepers'  breathing:  you  might  fancy  that 
the  trench  is  moaning  like  a  sick  child.  Frozen 
stiff,  I  start  dancing  like  a  bear  before  my  loop- 


no  Wooden  Crosses 

hole,  without  thinking  of  anything  but  the  time  as 
it  passes  away.  Face  to  face,  with  arms  crossed, 
men  are  jumping  heavily  up  and  down  as  they  chat- 
ter, or  are  stamping  in  a  regular  rhythm.  The  night 
is  enlivened  by  this  cadenced  sound.  In  the  foot- 
way in  the  communication  trench  the  hard,  cracked 
earth  re-echoes  under  all  these  hobnailed  boots.  The 
whole  line  of  trenches  is  dancing  to-night.  The 
whole  regiment  is  dancing  on  this  night  before  the 
attack ;  the  whole  army  must  be  dancing ;  the  whole 
of  France  is  dancing,  from  the  sea  to  the  Vosges.  .  .  . 
What  a  fine  communique  for  to-morrow ! 

I  am  now  fatigued,  and  dance  no  more.  Lean- 
ing with  my  elbows  on  the  parapet,  I  ponder 
vaguely  over  things.  .  .  .  Then  all  at  once  my 
head  falls  and  I  pull  myself  up  again.  .  .  .  This 
is  stupid,  I'm  falling  asleep.  I  look  at  the  watch 
on  my  wrist;  .  .  .  still  two  hours  to  go.  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  last  out  till  midnight.  Envyingly 
I  listen  to  the  snoring  of  a  comrade  who  is  doing  a 
heavy  stretch  deep  in  his  hole.  If  only  I  could 
slip  in  beside  him  on  the  warm  straw,  my  head  on 
his  pillow  of  sandbags,  and  go  to  sleep !  .  .  .  My 
eyes  close  deliciously  at  the  mere  thought  of  it. 

No,  no  humbug !  .  .  .  I  pull  myself  together 
and  force  myself  to  look  into  the  black  opening  of 
the  loophole,  where  there  is  nothing  possibly  to  be 
seen.  It's  much  too  quiet,  in  any  case.  Not  a 
single  shell;  you  might  think  the  Boches  had 
cleared  out. 

Tac !  a  single  shot  cracks  out  dry  and  hard,  com- 


Vigil  III 

ing  from  the  Boche  lines.  Then  another  almost 
on  its  heels.  .  .  .  The  men  who  are  day-dream- 
ing at  their  loopholes  have  pulled  themselves  up 
sharply.  We  listen,  filled  with  anxiety.  A  moment 
passes,  then  some  shots  ring  out  pell-mell,  and  the 
firing  swells  and  crackles  up. 

They  are  firing  on  the  patrol! 

A  Boche  rocket  sends  up  its  white  arrow  and 
explodes.  Another  shrieks  on  the  right,  then  one 
on  the  left,  and  their  eyes  of  lightning,  floating  and 
sustained  by  the  wind,  peer  over  the  awakened 
plain.  Nothing  in  it  is  moving,  our  men  have 
gone  to  ground. 

Fronting  us,  the  whole  German  line  is  firing: 
bullets  are  whining  over  the  trench,  very  low,  and 
several  of  them  come  smacking  against  the  para- 
pet, like  the  crack  of  a  whip.  In  this  noisy  fusil- 
lade the  regular  rattling  of  a  machine  gun  is  the 
dominant  note,  annoying  and  exasperating.  Look 
out! — a  green  rocket,  the  Germans  are  calling  out 
for  artillery.  We  wait,  bent  a  little  more,  behind 
our  loopholes. 

Five  shots  come  over,  like  red  sheaves,  five 
shrapnel  well  on  the  line.  Their  sudden  glare 
lights  up  round  backs  and  heads  sedulously  duck- 
ing. Out  in  the  plain,  scattering,  here  and  there, 
shells  are  bursting,  both  contact  shells  and  time 
fuses.  A  few  minutes  of  violent  row,  and  then 
with  neither  rhyme  nor  reason  everything  is  quiet : 
the  guns  have  worked  off  their  fury.  The  rifle 
fire  has  also  stopped. 


112  Wooden  Crosses 

*  *  Let  them  pass,  don't  shoot !  .  .  .  The  patrol 
is  out  there,"  orders  a  voice. 

*'Let  them  pass,  don't  shoot!" 

The  order  reaches  us,  passes  on,  fades  down  the 
line.  We  look,  we  listen.  .  .  .  Crack!  A  few 
paces  off  a  shot  smashes  into  the  silence.  But  is  he 
crazy,  that  fellow?    Crack!    Yet  another.   .    .    . 

''Don't  fire,  God  Almighty!"  cries  Sergeant 
Bertheir,  who  has  darted  out  of  his  shelter.  *'  It's 
the  patrol  coming  back." 

At  that  very  moment  I  hear  in  the  darkness  a 
voice  that  quavers.  You  would  fancy  that  some- 
one is  singing.     Indeed,  yes,  it  is  a  song: 

Je  veux  revoir  ma  Normandie. 

Behind  me  Fouillard  laughs.  And  I  too  laugh, 
in  spite  of  myself,  with  a  catch  at  my  heart.  It  is 
both  tragic  and  burlesque,  this  song  stammered  out 
in  the  darkness.  The  voice  comes  close  and  ceases 
its  singing. 

''Don't  shoot!  .  .  .  Verneau  of  the  fourth. 
.    .    .   Patrol." 

But  another,  farther  away,  has  taken  up  the 
chorus  in  a  stifled  voice: 

.  .  .  ma  Normandie, 
C'est  le  pays  qui  m'a  donne  le  jour  .  .  . 

And  still  farther  off  we  can  hear  a  third  of  them 
whistling,  completely  lost  in  the  fields  of  obscurity 
and  gloom: 


Vigil  113 

En  avant  la  Normandie! 

Everywhere  in  the  black  fields  you  can  hear  low- 
ered voices  humming  and  timid  whistlings  on  the 
level  of  the  ground.  It  is  just  like  a  homecoming 
from  the  fair,  at  once  thrilling  and  droll.  In  order 
to  guard  against  a  possible  rise  on  the  part  of  the 
Germans,  who  might  by  chance  have  got  hold  of 
the  password,  orders  have  been  given  to  the  patrols 
to  sing  folksongs,  so  as  to  be  recognized.  And  as 
they  crawl  among  the  hard  beetroots,  slowly  drag- 
ging along,  they  are  singing.  Their  half-stifled 
voices  prowl  about  on  the  other  side  of  the  barbed 
thicket;  they  are  looking  out  for  the  openings 
through. 

"This  way,  you  boys!" 

A  man  jumps  into  the  trench. 

"Any  of  you  gone  under?" 

"I  don't  know.  They  heard  us,  the  cows!  It 
couldn't  be  anything  else,  with  their  infernal 
beastly  wire-cutters  that  anybody  could  hear  a 
league  away." 

Others  let  themselves  slide  down  into  our  hole, 
arms  in  hand.  A  dark  group  can  be  descried 
coming  slowly  towards  us. 

"Don't  fire!    A  wounded  man." 

Hands  are  reached  out  to  them  up  over  the  para- 
pet. Painfully  they  lower  their  moaning  com- 
rade. He  is  bent  practically  double,  as  though 
broken,  wounded  in  the  flank. 

"There's  been  another  one  left  out  there  close 


114  Wooden  Crosses 

by  the  river.  ...  A  bullet  clean  through  the 
head.  You  might  say  their  machine  guns  were 
firing  low." 

There  is  still  another  lost  and  wandering  voice 
to  be  heard  singing  away  outside.  At  last  it 
comes  up.  A  leap  into  the  trench.  Then  nothing 
more.   .    .    . 

"Everyone  has  come  back.  Attention  there!" 
Berthier  has  the  word  passed  along. 

"All  the  men  are  back,"  repeat  the  watchers. 

In  a  shelter  behind  me  there  are  voices  arguing : 

"After  that  patrol  they'll  be  bound  to  suspect 
something's  up.  We're  going  to  be  the  mugs 
again.  .  .  .  And  the  third  battalion,  why  isn't 
it  going  to  attack?" 

I  am  barely  listening;  I  am  getting  numb,  de- 
veloping pins  and  needles.  Still  another  hour  and 
a  quarter.  ...  I'm  going  to  count  up  to  a  thou- 
sand, that  will  take  up  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  After 
that  I  shall  only  have  an  hour  to  get  through. 

But  it  sends  me  off  to  sleep,  that  rosary  of  stupid 
numbers.  To  keep  myself  awake  I  want  to  think 
of  to-morrow's  attack,  our  wild  rush  through  the 
plain,  the  chain  of  men  that  breaks  link  by  link: 
I  want  to  make  myself  feel  afraid.  But  no,  I  can't 
do  it.  My  heavy  head  refuses  to  obey  me.  My 
benumbed  mind  loses  itself  staggering  about  in  a 
confused  reverie. 

The  war.  ...  I  see  ruins,  mud,  long  files  of 
men  foundered  and  fordone,  taverns  where  they 
fight  desperately  for  litres  of  wine,  gendarmes  on 


Vigil  115 

the  watch,  trunks  of  trees  splintered  into  match- 
wood, and  wooden  crosses,  crosses,  crosses.  .  .  . 
All  that  passes  through  my  head,  mingles,  melts 
together.     The  war.   .    .    . 

It  seems  to  me  that  my  whole  life  will  be  be- 
spattered with  these  gloomy,  sordid  horrors,  that 
my  sullied  memory  will  never  succeed  in  forgetting. 
Never  again  shall  I  be  able  to  look  at  a  fine  tree 
without  subconsciously  computing  the  weight  of 
the  stump,  a  hill  without  imagining  the  trench  on 
the  counter-slope,  an  untilled  field  without  looking 
out  for  the  corpses  in  it.  When  the  red  tip  of  a 
cigar  will  glow  in  the  garden,  I  shall  perhaps  ex- 
claim: "Eh!  the  blithering  idiot  that's  going  to 
get  us  marked  down!"  No,  what  an  old  bore  I 
shall  be  with  my  tales  of  the  war,  when  I  am  an 
old  man ! 

But  shall  I  ever  be  old?  One  never  knows. 
.  .  .  The  day  after  to-morrow.  How  they 
snore,  those  lucky  devils!  A  corner  of  straw  any 
old  where,  and  my  blanket,  that  and  nothing  more 
is  all  my  heart's  wish  now.     To  sleep.   .    .    . 

In  a  half -doze  my  wavering  thoughts  rough  out 
a  burlesque  idyll,  a  kind  of  inconsequent,  irre- 
sponsible dream  that  I  don't  altogether  follow.  I 
have  met  the  girl  at  the  entrance  to  her  billet,  and 
pointing  into  the  landscape  with  a  masterful  ges- 
ture of  authority,  I  fix  the  rendezvous  for  her. 

"Straight  in  front  of  you,  at  twelve  hundred 
metres,  a  straw  stack.  .  .  .  Two  fingers  to  the 
left  a  tree  like  a  ball." 


ii6  Wooden  Crosses 

And  in  proper  military  fashion,  her  feet  squared, 
the  girl  replies,  saluting : 

"Seen." 

How  cold  it  is!  .  .  .  And  black!  .  .  .  What 
are  we  here  for,  all  of  us?  .  .  .  It's  stupid.  .  .  . 
It's  miserable.  .  .  .  My  head  bends  forward, 
drops.  ...  I  am  afraid  of  sleeping.  ...  I 
am  asleep. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  MILL  WITH  NO  SAILS 

I  HAVE  found  the  farm  when  we  came  back  just 
the  same  as  we  had  left  it  on  Sunday,  before  the 
attack.  You  might  think  that  the  four  companies 
have  only  just  gone  across  the  grasslands,  on  their 
way  up  to  the  trenches;  and  the  big  gambolling 
dog  seems  to  be  running  after  a  belated  laggard. 
Nothing  has  moved. 

It  was  there,  along  that  path  of  hard,  frost- 
cracked  mud,  that  we  went  away.  How  many 
have  come  back?  Oh  no!  no!  let  us  not 
count.    .    .    . 

I  enter  once  more  into  the  big  kitchen,  all  fra- 
grant with  soup,  and  sit  down  close  to  the  window 
on  my  chair.  There  is  my  bowl,  there  are  my 
wooden  shoes,  my  little  bottle  of  ink.  It  seems 
so  good,  to  find  again  these  things  of  one's  own, 
these  friendly  nothings  that  one  might  well  have 
never  seen  again. 

My  good  luck  was  waiting  on  me ;  life  continues 
with  fresh  deferments  of  hope.  I  feel  a  kind  of  sting- 
ing, secret  joy  in  my  heart.  I  see  the  sun,  I  myself^ 
I  hear  the  song  of  running  water;  and  my  heart  is 
at  peace,  my  heart  that  has  beaten  so  furiously. 

117 


ii8  Wooden  Crosses 

How  hard  man  is,  despite  his  exclamations  of 
pity !  how  light  seems  to  him  the  anguish  of  others 
when  his  own  is  not  intermingled  with  it !  I  look 
at  things  with  a  distracted  eye.  The  dunghill, 
moist  and  shining,  is  stacked  up  against  the  wall, 
so  that  from  the  room  you  can  see  the  little  black 
cock  on  a  level  with  the  window  in  a  thin  blue  mist. 
Strayed  bullets  have  left  upon  the  grey  stones  of 
the  stabling  a  kind  of  white  scars,  as  it  were.  In 
the  middle  of  the  little  enclosed  garden,  the  well 
with  its  worn  curb,  and  its  three  walls  stained  with 
green.  .  .  .  What,  it's  not  all  over,  down  there? 
One  would  say  that  the  guns  are  beginning  again. 
Who  have  relieved  us?  The  hundred-and-forty- 
eighth.     Poor  fellows !   .    .    . 

The  water  of  the  little  channel  runs  trippingly 
in  front  of  the  farm.  It  passes  through  the  pond 
without  leaving  any  trace  of  its  passing,  and  es- 
capes from  it,  leaping  from  stone  to  stone,  till  it 
reaches  the  decayed  mill-wheel,  upon  which  there 
sits  a  great  cat  pretending  to  be  asleep. 

The  nestling  bevies  of  pigeons  go  and  come, 
caressing  the  walls  with  their  swift  fleeting  shad- 
ows ;  the  geese  march  out  their  solemn  troop,  walk- 
ing, calling  out  and  falling  silent  all  together.  Two 
small  calves,  one  with  black  spots,  the  other  with 
red,  are  gambolling  with  the  lolloping  graces  of 
young  puppies ;  and  the  big  spaniel  amuses  himself 
by  terrifying  the  hens  with  his  yap-yap-yelping. 
They  hear  nothing,  take  no  notice.  Only  the 
donkey  slowly  eating  his  fodder,  very  dignified  under 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails         119 

his  tunic  of  dried  mud,  is  listening  with  one  ear. 
Now  and  then  he  stops  chewing,  pausing  with  the 
straw  between  his  teeth,  raises  his  long,  pensive 
head,  and  hearkens  to  the  thunder  of  the  guns. 

What  a  row  it  was  on  Sunday  in  the  court  when 
the  brandy  was  distributed — a  cupful  for  every 
two  men! — and  the  cigars  given  round,  noble 
penny  cigars  with  bands!  My  word!  we  had  a 
feast. 

* '  If  the  Boches  do  an  autopsy  on  me  they  won't 
find  my  cupboard  empty,"  big  Vairon  had  said, 
his  cheeks  purple  and  his  belt  loosened. 

It  was  over  there  in  that  barn  with  its  bristling 
thatched  roof  that  we  had  piled  our  packs.  They 
are  still  there,  nearly  all  of  them,  .  .  .  the  os- 
suary of  a  battalion.  It  is  a  tragic  medley  of 
rusty  implements,  equipment,  burst  haversacks, 
cartridge-pouches,  satchels.  Linen  lies  about, 
already  stained  with  mud.  A  chunk  of  bread 
never  touched,  a  bottle  spilling  its  contents, 
packets  of  letters,  coloured  picture-postcards — so 
naive  and  foolish  and  of  a  kind  to  make  one  weep. 
...  In  spite  of  yourself  you  read  the  names, 
without,  even  bending:  I  know  them  all. 

That  is  Vairon's  undershirt;  he  left  it  behind, 
fearing  he  would  be  too  hot.  Everything  has 
been  gone  through,  the  chocolate  and  tins  of  bully- 
beef  have  been  shared  out,  and  in  a  handkerchief 
have  been  knotted  up  the  papers  and  the  poor 
nothings  that  are  sent  on  to  men's  families,  .  .  . 
soldiers'  legacies.    A  photograph  has  slipped  into 


I20  Wooden  Crosses 

the  rut:  a  mother  in  her  Sunday  dress,  her  big 
baby  on  her  knee.  Shirts  still  folded  neatly, 
first-aid  packets,  a  pipe.  And,  lost  on  this 
wretched  pile,  a  silk  cushion,  a  fine  pink  silk  cushion, 
fetched  there  who  knows  how,  who  knows  by 
whom! 

Good  Lord!  how  heavy  that  thundering  is.  It 
is  like  a  huge  convoy  rolling  along,  a  dull  thunder- 
storm growling  and  coming  nearer.  Then  rifle 
fire  begins  to  rattle,  a  whole  sharp  tumult  of 
attack. 

The  dog  is  the  first  to  grow  uneasy  and  come 
indoors,  with  his  back  down.  Next  arrive  the 
fowls  in  a  state  of  terror ;  then  the  two  little  calves, 
suddenly  astonished  to  find  themselves  alone  in 
the  garden  close.  The  donkey  has  not  budged. 
Dreamily  he  stands  in  front  of  his  truss.  Now 
and  then  he  pricks  up  his  ears,  throws  back  his 
head  as  if  he  was  going  to  bray;  then,  scorning 
that  thunder  as  a  thing  well  known  and  familiar  to 
him,  he  bends  down,  sagaciously  tears  out  a  jowl- 
ful  of  hay,  and  eats,  his  head  hanging  to  the 
ground. 


I  do  not  like  the  folk  belonging  to  this  village. 
The  shopkeepers  have  no  regard  for  us,  not  even 
for  the  sake  of  the  money  they  rob  us  of.  They 
eye  us  with  a  kind  of  disgust  or  fear,  and  when  one 
goes  into  their  shops,  making  oneself  small  and 
pushing  in,  with  one's  notes  for  a  hundred  sous  in 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails        121 

one's  hand  so  as  to  be  served  quicker,  they  squeal 
louder  than  if  the  Prussians  were  coming  to  loot 
the  place. 

When  the  Germans  were  in  occupation,  the 
women  have  told  us,  these  people  were  less  proud 
and  great.  They  could  not  make  up  their  minds 
to  run  away  and  become  refugees  on  account  of 
their  goods.  But  when  the  last  French  troops  had 
passed — these  were  chasseurs  k  pied,  who  went  on 
firing  all  a  whole  afternoon  ensconced  in  the 
cemetery — panic  seized  on  them.  They  hid  every- 
thing— their  liqueurs,  their  conserves,  their  good- 
looking  pennies — and  the  women  moaned  and 
groaned  while  the  old  men  were  digging  holes  in 
the  garden  to  bury  away  their  hoard. 

The  village  schoolmistress — a  little  voluntary 
teacher  that  people  disliked  because  she  wore  her 
hair  in  bands — ^had  shut  the  windows  of  the  school- 
house  and  put  her  flag  at  half-mast.  But  big 
Thomas,  the  grocer  and  wine-seller  of  the  Lion  d'Or, 
had  rushed  off  to  her  at  once,  followed  by  certain 
shrewish  creatures,  to  force  her  to  take  in  her  flag, 
.  .  .  "which  would  have  the  countryside  put  to 
fire  and  sword." 

The  little  woman  had  stood  up  to  him  for  a 
moment. 

**You  are  not  the  mayor,"  she  said,  "you  are 
nothing  and  nobody.  I  am  not  going  to  take  any 
orders  from  you." 

"  Order  or  no  order,  you  are  going  to  do  as  every- 
body else  does,"  choked  the  grocer,  who  was  al- 


122  Wooden  Crosses 

ready  in  his  mind's  eye  seeing  himself  shot  at  his 
own  counter.  "I  am  giving  the  order  to  do 
it." 

"In  whose  name?" 

*'I  don't  care  a  curse  whose;  in  the  King  of 
Prussia's  name,  if  you  like!" 

Stammering,  apoplectic,  his  eyes  on  the  points 
of  tumbling  out  of  his  head,  the  shopkeeper 
thumped  the  schoolmistress's  desk  furiously  with 
his  ponderous  fist.  She  had  been  obliged  to  give 
in.   .    .    . 

Terrorized,  some  hidden  away  in  their  houses, 
the  others  in  dumb  groups  on  the  side  of  the  high- 
way, the  peasants  had  looked  on  at  the  passing  of 
the  first  Bavarian  battalions,  who  were  braying 
gleefully,  "Paris!  Paris!"  as  if  they  were  certainly 
bound  to  sack  the  city  the  very  next  day.  It  was 
a  motor-car  that  arrived  first  of  all,  full  of  soldiers 
armed  to  the  teeth.  The  urchins  gambolled  and 
leaped  about  it,  pulling  faces. 

"Will  you  stop  it,  you  little  ruffians!"  cried 
an  old  woman,  the  doyenne  of  the  country- 
side. "They'll  think  you  are  making  game  of 
them." 

And  she  made  them  such  low  bows  that  the  long 
black  ribbons  on  her  Sunday  bonnet  trailed  on  the 
ground.  The  Germans  laughed  and  flung  hand- 
fuls  of  sweetmeats  to  the  children — sweetmeats 
they  had  stolen  in  Reims.  For  five  days  the 
countryside  had  been  full  of  Bavarians  and  Prus- 
sians.    They  had  carried  away  three  hostages  that 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails        123 

had  never  been  seen  again :  the  oldest  it  was  said, 
had  been  shot  a  league  away,  on  the  roadside,  for 
no  reason — just  to  serve  as  an  example. 

''And  they  paid  on  the  nail,  those  swine," 
related  big  Thomas  admiringly.  **The  officers 
paid  with  chits ;  but  the  men  gave  us  money,  and 
French  money,  too." 

That  money — money  taken  from  our  prisoners, 
our  wounded,  our  dead — the  grocer  had  his 
drawers  full  of  it,  and  that  had  been  the  begin- 
ning of  prosperity  for  his  shop,  prosperity  that 
continued  with  us. 

On  the  day  of  the  attack,  as  there  was  not  a 
single  soldier  left  in  the  village,  he  had  at  length 
been  able  to  take  a  little  rest.  He  would  fain  have 
gone  fishing,  but  the  sentries  posted  at  the  end  of 
the  Cow's  Road  had  stopped  him.  He  had  gone 
home  again  in  a  fury,  brandishing  his  fishing-pole 
at  the  risk  of  smashing  his  bottles;  and  then,  to 
pass  the  time,  he  had  climbed  up  into  his  garret 
and  followed  the  fighting  through  his  field-glasses, 
while  his  wife  made  pancakes. 

When  he  had  seen  us,  precisely  on  the  stroke  of 
noon,  leap  out  of  our  trenches  and  dash  at  the 
charge  towards  the  Boche  line,  flung  into  the  naked 
fields  like  seeds  into  the  wind,  he  had  experienced 
something  that  might  perhaps  have  been  a  touch 
of  feeling. 

*'Come  here  quick  and  look!"  he  had  yelled  to 
his  old  woman.  ' '  Hurray !  there  won't  be  any  of 
them  left." 


124  Wooden  Crosses 

''I  can't  leave  the  milk,"  she  had  replied  from 
downstairs,  ''it's  going  to  boil  over." 

And  so  Thomas  had  seen  everything  by  him- 
self. 

The  village,  however,  had  a  thrill  that  day,  see- 
ing the  first  stretchers  come  in  and  the  long  file 
of  limping,  wounded  men,  dragging  their  bloody 
feet  like  injured  dogs.  On  her  doorstep,  Mother 
Bouquet,  whimpering  and  tearful,  was  trying  to 
recognize  her  customers  in  that  march  past.  Out 
in  the  open  fields  the  schoolmistress  had  estab- 
lished a  sort  of  half-way  post,  where  she  waited 
for  the  wounded  with  a  big  jug  of  lemonade. 

The  cure — a  gallant  old  man  who  loves  us  dearly 
— never  went  to  bed  all  that  night.  At  daybreak 
he  was  still  giving  absolution  to  dying  soldiers. 

There  were  six  ditches  filled  with  the  dead,  and 
the  last  had  perforce  to  wait,  laid  in  a  heap  in  a 
corner,  until  the  territorials  had  finished  digging 
a  hole  for  them.  No  flowers  were  found  to  dress 
their  tombs,  only  a  few  frost-bitten  stocks,  and 
that  was  what  has  given  Thomas  the  idea  of  open- 
ing a  department  for  wreaths. 

"There's  still  more  profit  on  them  than  there  is 
on  jam,"  the  big  man  declared. 

There  is  a  whole  selection  of  them  on  a  stand, 
arranged  like  brands  of  liqueurs.  You  can  find 
quite  simple  ones,  of  yellow  immortelles,  which 
savour  of  the  apothecary's  shop ;  and  large  ones  of 
beads,  in  which  are  interwoven  black  flowers  with 
violet-coloured  stems. 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails        125 

"Those  are  for  well-to-do  customers,  those  fel- 
lows," says  Demachy,  as  he  examines  them  with 
pleased  interest,  like  a  serious  gentleman  consider- 
ing fully  before  purchasing.   And  he  adds  prettily: 

"That's  the  kind  of  one  I  shall  lay  at  your 
shrine." 


Our  soup  eaten,  the  shops  fill  up  and  the  streets 
become  animated.  The  village  assumes  a  Sunday 
aspect.  Everybody  is  out  of  doors:  old  grand- 
mothers trotting  with  short  steps,  can  on  hip; 
children  squalling  as  they  play  at  hop-scotch  with 
the  fragments  of  the  stone  crucifix  overthrown  by 
a  twelve-inch  shell;  peasants  who  no  longer  go  to 
their  fields;  and  soldiers,  soldiers,  soldiers.   .    .    . 

There  is  a  regular  fighting  scramble  about  the 
doors  of  the  grocer's  shop,  without  anybody  hav- 
ing a  clear  notion  of  what  they  are  going  to  buy. 
As  they  pass  along,  they  give  one  another  tips. 

"Hello!  They've  got  no  more  pinard  at  the 
Comptoir  Frangais." 

"The  schoolmistress  has  a  batch  of  sausages." 

"There  are  some  at  the  wheelwrights'  too,  but 
you'll  have  to  look  slippy." 

Everybody  in  this  place  is  a  shopkeeper;  every 
house  is  a  shop,  every  farm  a  tavern,  and  every 
window  is  wreathed  with  strings  of  tinder  by  the 
yard  by  way  of  sign.  The  pork-butcher  sells 
combs,  and  the  mayor  vends  rotgut  brandy. 

In  front  of  the  Comptoir  Frangais  there  are 


126  Wooden  Crosses 

thirty  soldiers  shoving  and  shouting.  Nothing 
but  empty  casks. 

"Pack  of  cows!"  cries  one  of  the  men,  cleaving 
through  the  group  to  take  himself  off.  ''How 
happy  111  be  the  day  a  saucepan  smashes  their 
crib  in  for  them!" 

The  baker's  door  is  bolted  and  the  shutters  are 
up.  A  dozen  simple  souls  are  none  the  less  stand- 
ing in  a  queue,  in  the  insane  hope  of  having  a  little 
new  bread.  An  edict  of  the  mayor's  forbids  sell- 
ing it  to  anybody  but  civilians,  and  the  door  does 
not  open. 

And  yet  we  have  seen  it  in  batches,  in  pale 
golden  stacks,  the  lovely  bread  that  civilians  have, 
after  the  Mame.  .  .  .  Ah !  how  good  it  is,  fresh 
bread!  .    .    . 

Inside  the  houses  we  can  hear  singing.  In  the 
village  square  folk  are  arguing,  are  merrymaking. 

The  war  is  over  for  us — over  for  five  days.  The 
attack,  our  dead,  all  is  forgotten,  only  remembered 
just  for  a  word  or  two  among  pals,  just  to  say  to 
each  other  with  a  secret  joy:  ''Come  through  that 
all  right,  eh!"  In  five  days,  it  is  true,  we  shall 
have  to  go  up  to  the  trenches  again,  to  the  Redan 
or  the  left  bank  of  the  river;  but  nobody  allows 
himself  to  think  of  that.  Just  now  there  is  only 
the  actual  present,  only  to-day  itself  that  counts 
— the  only  day  one  is  certain  to  have  to  live. 
Without  paying  any  attention,  just  as  the  ear 
accustoms  itself  to  the  tick-tock  of  a  clock,  even 
so  do  we  hear  the  guns.     When  it  is  the  seventy- 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails         127 

fives  at  the  station  that  are  firing,  you  might 
think  their  whining  is  crossing  the  square. 

* 'You'll  see  that  by  dint  of  playing  the  fool 
they'll  get  what  they're  after,"  says  Lemoine 
who  has  no  love  for  the  gunners.  **The  Boches 
are  leaving  us  alone.  .  .  .  They've  got  to  go 
and  annoy  them.  Result,  they  bombard  the  old 
town,  and  it's  we  that  will  be  the  mugs,  as  per 
usual." 

The  Germans  bombard  us  frequently,  and  being 
quite  new,  the  mayor's  house,  with  its  slate- 
covered  bell-tower,  serves  them  as  target.  There 
are  houses  smashed  in  down  to  the  very  cellar, 
displaying  their  poor  hearts  laid  bare  and  open; 
and  their  roofs,  stripped  of  every  tile,  open  to  the 
sky  like  a  clerestory.  Huge  chaotic  holes  are  dug 
out  where  once  there  were  bams ;  in  the  bottom  of 
the  cistern  the  shells  have  piled  up  stones,  beams 
of  wood,  and  the  calcined  debris  of  Heaven  knows 
what.  Out  of  all  this  ruins  the  territorials  are 
making  little  heaps  without  overmuch  hustling, 
and  the  urchins  come  along  to  hunt  in  them  for 
roofing-laths  to  make  sabres  with — for  the  children 
also  are  playing  at  war. 

When  we  come  away  from  Thomas's  we  go  along 
to  Mother  Bouquet's,  whose  shop,  painted  black 
all  over,  casts  a  gloom  over  the  square  with  its 
leafless  elm-trees.  We  have  to  line  up  in  the 
queue  before  we  can  get  inside,  and  must  indulge 
in  a  free  fight  to  be  served.  In  the  grocery  de- 
partment with  its  empty  bins  and  cases  there  is 


128  Wooden  Crosses 

a  mob  of  men  who  are  bellowing  this  and  that. 
Mother  Bouquet,  an  enormous  creature,  is  de- 
fending herself  at  her  counter  against  a  score  of 
greedy  snatching  hands. 

**  There  are  no  more  sardines.  .  .  .  Thirty- 
two  sous  for  the  camembert.  ...  If  you  don't 
want  to  have  it,  leave  it,  it  will  get  sold.  .  .  . 
Don't  go  tumbling  everything  over  like  that,  you 
set  of  blackguards!" 

Those  who  are  crushed  up  against  the  counter 
become  imploring,  and  those  who  are  behind  call 
over  their  heads. 

* '  Madame  Bouquet,  that  tin  of  beans  up  there, 
if  you  please.  ...  I'm  a  good  old  customer 
of  yours." 

*  *  Some  pie,  Madame  Bouquet.  ...  Hi !  this 
way!  .  .  .  I've  been  waiting  now  for  a  good 
half -hour." 

The  groceress  hustles  and  bustles  about,  utters 
cries,  and  serves  nobody,  only  thinking  of  push- 
ing away  the  hands  that  are  thrusting  forward,  for 
fear  that  somebody  may  steal  something  from  her. 

"There's  nothing  left,  nothing,  I  tell  you.  .  .  . 
Go  away!  .  .  .  Lucie!  Come  and  shut  the 
door.  .  .  .  They'll  be  smashing  everything,  the 
dirty  ruffians ! " 

But  Lucie,  the  daughter  of  the  proprietress,  makes 
no  move :  she  doesn't  like  any  dirty  ruffians,  thank 
you.  A  silver  St.  Andrew's  cross  upon  her  starched 
bodice,  her  nondescript  hair  waved  with  curling- 
papers,  she  stays  haughtily  aloof  in  the  little  room 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails         129 

at  the  back  of  the  shop,  as  proud  on  her  stool  be- 
tween the  portrait  of  General  Joffre  and  the  list  of 
bad  money  as  a  pretty  lady  at  the  beginning  of  her 
career  in  her  taxi. 

The  whole  regiment  knows  Lucie,  all  the  men 
desire  her,  and  when  she  goes  across  the  crowded 
shop  carrying  the  glasses,  they  leer  at  her  with  a 
greedy  air,  and  say  quite  crudely  what  they  feel. 
The  bolder  ones  put  out  their  hands  secretly  and 
stroke  her  as  she  passes  by.  She  does  not  deign 
even  to  notice,  and  passes  through  their  midst 
with  the  outraged  air  of  a  princess  in  exile  con- 
demned to  do  housework.  They  can  say  of  her 
whatever  they  may  like,  she  is  certainly  a  girl 
that  keeps  her  station.  She  smiles  only  on  sol- 
diers of  the  "right  sort,"  and  blushes  for  nothing 
less  than  an  officer. 

A  soldier  of  the  "right  sort"  is  one  that  buys 
condensed  milk,  pastries,  extra  fine  chocolate,  and 
bottled  wine.  These  are,  in  her  eyes,  superior 
wares,  whose  acquisition  denotes  a  finished  educa- 
tion and  the  "correct"  tastes  of  a  man  of  family. 
Demachy,  having  bought  eau-de-Cologne  and 
champagne,  is  estimated  as  almost  on  a  level  with 
a  sub-lieutenant,  and  Lucie  calls  him  Monsieur. 

"Four  petits  verres,  mademoiselle,"  orders 
Lemoine.     "Something 'nice." 

"Grape  brandy,  for  instance,"  adds  Sulphart, 
by  way  of  precise  hint. 

The  girl,  bridhng  and  affected,  looks  at  Gilbert 
and  says: 


I30  Wooden  Crosses 

**How  very  unreasonable  of  you!  You  know 
quite  well  it's  forbidden.  ...  I'm  going  to 
serve  you  all  the  same,  but  you  must  make  haste 
and  drink  it  off  quickly  so  that  I  can  clear  away  the 
glasses." 

Sulphart  obediently  empties  his  at  one  gulp, 
and  passes  into  the  other  room,  when  he  is  to  make 
our  purchases  for  dinner.  On  the  spot  he  starts 
braying : 

"I  had  bespoken  it,  that  sausage.  Isn't  that 
so,  Madame  Bouquet?  .  .  .  And  the  gruyere, 
*my'  gruyere.   .    .    ." 

To  listen  to  him,  he  had  bespoken  everything  in 
the  shop  since  yesterday,  a  week  ago,  from  the 
beginning  of  time. 

"That's  mine,  that  sausage,  fish-mouth.  .  .  . 
You  ask  if  it  isn't." 

At  a  table  close  by  us  there  are  some  mates 
drinking  red  wine,  litre  after  litre.  In  the  old 
days  you  paid  twenty-four  sous  for  it.  But  an 
instruction  from  the  Colonel  forbade  the  sale  of 
vin  ordinaire  at  more  than  eighty  centimes.  There- 
upon Mother  Bouquet  had  her  bottles  sealed,  and 
ever  since  we  pay  thirty  sous  for  it — it's  bottled 
wine  now. 

Vieuble,  a  soldier  out  of  our  company,  is  serving 
in  his  shirtsleeves.  In  every  village  where  we 
come  to  rest  he  finds  a  shopkeeper  to  engage  him. 
He  serves  in  the  bar,  goes  down  to  the  cellar, 
washes  the  glasses,  picks  up  his  tips,  puts  in  a 
little  pilfering,  and  goes  to  bed  every  night  with  a 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails        131 

skinful.  With  the  Colonel's  cook,  he  is  the  most 
envied  man  in  the  whole  regiment. 

He  comes  up  to  our  table  with  the  satisfied 
smug  smile  of  a  landlord  whose  business  is 
prospering. 

"Well,  boys,  so  you've  got  out  of  the  march  too? 
...  I  made  myself  go  pale;  the  doctor  always 
knows  me.  He  chucked  me  a  purge  and  that's  all 
right.  ...  Of  course  old  Morache  tried  to  pinch 
me  at  the  corner,  but  I  dodged  him.  ..." 

"Yes.  I  saw  him  at  his  dirty  tricks  behind  the 
willows.  He  thinks  there  aren't  enough  police  as 
it  is." 

'  *  And  they've  made  him  a  sous- lieutenant ! ' '  says 
Vieuble  indignantly,  his  dishcloth  tucked  under  his 
arm.  "Anyway,  it  wasn't  for  what  he  did  the  day 
of  the  attack." 

"You  can  be  sure  that  if  the  Colonel  had  seen 
what  some  of  us  have  seen  he  wouldn't  have  been 
put  forward.  .  .  .  You  know  he  chucked  four 
days'  cells  at  Broucke  and  nobody  has  the  least 
notion  what  it  was  all  for." 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  predicts  Sulphart,  coming 
back  laden  Hke  a  ration-party;  "that'll  all  get 
paid,  wholesale  and  retail." 

"It's  like  minors'  estates,"  declares  Lemoine 
sententiously :  "it  goes  on  at  compound  interest." 

"We'll  meet  again  when  the  war's  over." 

It's  always  the  same  song :  that'll  be  fixed  up  after 
the  war.  SettHng  their  revenges  for  that  uncertain 
date  already  more  than  by  half  avenges  them. 


132  Wooden  Crosses 

During  their  service  time,  in  barracks,  when 
the  adjutant  put  them  down  for  fire  duty  or  the 
sergeant  sent  them  right  about  face  as  they  were 
going  out  of  the  gates,  they  would  go  off,  raging 
to  the  highest  degree  and  growHng  mysterious  and 
obscure  threats. 

**  When  the  war  comes,  we'll  settle  it.  .  .  .  We'll 
come  across  them  again,  the  blighters!  .   .  .  " 

War  has  broken  out,  and  they  have  in  point  of 
fact  come  across  the  adjutant  and  the  sergeant, 
and  speedily  they  have  haled  them  off  to  the  can- 
teen, calling  them  '  *  old  boy. ' '  Then  they  have  de- 
tested other  ones,  or  even  the  same  ones.  And  now 
that  they  are  fighting,  it  is  no  longer  the  war  to 
which  they  postpone  their  terrific  plans  and  dark 
designs  of  vengeance,  it's  to  the  coming  time  of 
peace. 

"Wait  till  we're  civilians  again,  then  you'll  see." 

And  Demachy,  who  knows  perfectly  well  that 
he'll  see  nothing,  smiles  with  a  sceptical  air,  play- 
ing with  the  bottom  of  his  glass  in  which  there 
rolls  a  drop  of  liquid  light. 

Coming  out  of  the  grocery  or  in  from  the  street, 
others  sit  down  noisily  at  the  tables. 

'*Hi!  old  man,  a  litre  of  red  wine." 

A  big  corporal  is  vainly  endeavouring  to  soften 
Mademoiselle  Lucie,  now  scornful  and  cross- 
grained. 

"Just  two  petits  verres,  mamzelle:  we'll  drink 
quick.  No  matter  what,  so  long  as  it's  good  and 
stiff,  real  buck-up  stuff." 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails         133 

''Let  me  alone!  We  only  sell  wine  here,  this 
is  no  place  for  drunkards." 

Elbows  propped  on  the  table,  or  sitting  astride 
on  stools,  the  drinkers  are  arguing  in  a  turmoil 
and  tumult  of  voices,  of  dragging  heavy  boots, 
outcries,  the  noise  of  clattering  glasses. 

"Appears  that  the th,  that  relieved  us  at 

Berry,  have  managed  to  get  a  trench  pinched  off 
them." 

"That  doesn't  surprise  me  from  those  stinkers." 

"Hard  eaters  that  haven't  even  been  up  to  dig- 
ging decent  shelters.  .  .  .  There's  no  kid  about 
it,  we're  the  only  genuine  ones  that  know  the  way 
to  scratch." 

A  dispute  bursts  out  all  of  a  sudden  between 
Vieuble  and  some  machine  gunners  who  want  to 
do  him  for  a  litre.  A  little  red-faced  fellow  with 
eyes  devoid  of  eyelashes  is  defending  his  half-pence 
and  his  reputation  in  a  thick  and  clammy  voice. 

"You  mustn't  try  to  bully,  you  know.  It 
doesn't  follow  just  because  a  fellow  isn't  a  Pari- 
sian, that  he  must  be  a  robber.  Maybe  less  than 
yourself  for  all  we  know.  And  I've  been  there 
before  you,  too,  at  Panama,  just  myself  that's 
talking  to  you  now." 

"Shut  up!"  replies  Vieuble,  without  any  signs 
of  anger.  "You've  never  had  the  honour  of  drag- 
ging your  boots  there,  at  Panama,  you  lump  of 
cowdung!  I  know  your  metropolis  all  right: 
pigs  in  the  avenue." 

"What  is  this  swanker  talking  about?" 


134  Wooden  Crosses 

*'He  says  you  never  disembarked  at  Paris, 
slimy,  not  even  in  your  fine  Sunday  clothes  and  a 
duck  in  your  basket.  For  one  thing  you  never 
could  have,  with  the  machine  for  chucking  out 
country  bumpkins.  Why,  you  don't  even  know  it, 
that  machine,  rawhead.  It's  just  in  front  of  the 
station,  and  when  a  lout  disembarks,  ping! 
There's  a  big  whack  of  a  piston  and  the  blighter 
is  bunged  back  again  into  his  train." 

His  voice,  pure  faubourg,  with  its  drawling 
words,  strangely  reminds  me  of  Vairon.  I  fancy 
I  hear  him  grousing  again  on  the  morning  of  the 
attack  because  he  had  been  given  a  big  plank  to 
carry,  a  plank  he  was  detailed  to  throw  across  the 
German  trench  to  serve  as  a  bridge.  Poor  lad! 
Broucke  told  us  he  was  knocked  out  near  him  as  he 
doubled  himself  up,  and  that  he  was  still  moving 
then.  Now,  four  days  after,  it's  certainly  all  over. 
And  yet.   .    .    . 

"  Come  on,  don't  be  naughty,  Ferdinand,"  says 
Vieuble,  holding  out  his  hand.  "Plank  down 
your  thirty  bits  and  don't  cry:  you'll  see  your 
stable  again." 

At  the  table  next  in  line  with  ours,  there  are  sol- 
diers of  the  company  talking  about  the  mill  and 
the  Monpoix,  the  farmer's  family,  looking  sidelong 
at  us  as  if  they  were  talking  for  our  benefit.  Every- 
thing in  the  outfit  seems  suspicious  to  them,  the 
pigeons  that  fly  at  set  times,  the  chimney  smoke, 
the  white  dog  that  jumps  and  plays  in  the  meadow, 
in  sight  of  the  Germans;  and  especially  the  old 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails         135 

man,  who  goes  out  every  blessed  evening  alone  by 
himself  to  smoke  his  pipe. 

"I  tell  you  he  worked  his  tinder-box  more  than 
ten  times." 

"But  some  folk  don't  think  anything  about  it, 
you  know;  as  long  as  they  have  their  little  com- 
forts," insinuates  a  little  lean  fellow  with  a  turned- 
up  nose." 

Sulphart,  who  had  been  acting  as  umpire  in  the 
battle  of  the  machine  gunners,  is  not  there  to  an- 
swer them,  and  Gilbert  does  not  hear  them  at  all. 
His, ^  chin  in  his  palms,  he  is  dreaming,  his  eyes 
plunged  and  lost  in  vacancy. 

''What  are  you  thinking  about,  Gilbert?  Got 
the  poisonous  hump?" 

"No,   .    .    .  memories.   ..." 

And  he  speaks  very  low  and  from  far  away,  as 
if  the  past  was  holding  him. 

"Last  year,  this  very  day,  I  was  arriving  at 
Agay.  It  was  the  morning.  I  can  remember 
that  near  the  station  someone  was  burning  a 
fine  green  pile  of  eucalyptus  or  pine,  the  acrid 
smoke  of  which  was  scenting  the  air  with  a  wild 
odour.  She  told  me  that  that  made  her  cough.  She 
was  wearing  a  blue  frock,  periwinkle  blue.   .    .    ." 

Then  he  forces  himself  a  little  and  laughs.  .  .  . 

"Now  it's  me  that's  in  blue.  It's  the  war,  it's 
the  war.   ..." 

Our  neighbours  are  talking  louder,  with  ill- 
conditioned  laughter  and  scoffings  meant  for  us. 
One   evening,    as  they  were  going  back  to  their 


136  Wooden  Crosses 

shelter  with  a  dixie  full  of  rice  in  their  bellies,  with- 
out as  much  as  a  cup  of  wine,  they  must  have 
heard  us  laughing  in  the  cosy  house,  and  that  has 
turned  them  sour  and  jealous.  As  they  see  that 
I  am  quite  determined  not  to  answer  them  at  all, 
they  keep  on  and  persevere. 

"I  tell  you  they're  running  that  girl.  It  can 
always  be  done,  on  the  quiet,  with  a  bit  of 
money.  .  .  .  Ah!  I'd  jolly  well  like  to  see  the 
war  through  that  way." 

Gilbert  turns  his  head  very  slightly  and  looks  at 
them.  He  smiles  queerly,  a  little  bitter,  a  little 
mocking,  and  says  to  me  without  lowering  his  voice : 

"Do  you  hear  them?" 

Then  he  shrugs  his  shoulders,  thinks  for  a  mo- 
ment and: 

"After  the  war  is  gone  and  over,"  he  continues, 
his  smile  of  disappointment  at  the  corner  of  his 
lips,  "we  shall  never  be  able  to  show  ourselves 
again,  not  even  with  wooden  legs.  If  you  look  as 
if  you  might  have  a  little  money,  you  won't  have 
fought.  If  you  wear  a  collar  and  a  pair  of  gloves, 
it  will  never  be  believed  that  you  have  even  been 
in  the  trenches,  and  the  waggon-driver  out  of  the 
army  service  corps,  the  fellows  that  washed  down 
the  motor-lorries,  the  Colonel's  cook,  the  mecha- 
nician whose  call-up  was  postponed,  the  whole  lot 
will  insult  you  in  the  street,  and  will  ask  you  in 
what  funkhole  you  were  hiding  during  the  war. 
As  far  as  I'm  concerned  myself,  I  don't  care  a  pin. 
To  make  certain  not  to  have  myself  torn  limb  from 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails        137 

limb,  as  soon  as  I  see  things  going  to  the  dogs  I 
shall  buy  myself  canvas  shoes  with  nice  jute  soles, 
a  cap  at  thirty-nine  sous,  and  wash  my  face  with 
cart-grease.  .  .  .  With  that  and  a  drunken 
spree  one  is  pretty  sure  to  come  through  all  right : 
the  drunkards  are  the  only  folk  that  are  spared 
during  revolutions." 

As  all  shops  have  to  shut  at  one  o'clock,  we  pay 
Lucie,  who  gives  us  back  as  many  smiles  in  change 
as  good  half-pence,  and  we  go  out.  Sulphart 
wants  to  drag  us  along  to  the  Cafe  Culdot,  where, 
he  assures  us,  absinthe  is  to  be  found,  if  you  men- 
tion the  quartermaster  of  the  third.  From  mere 
force  of  habit  Lemoine  says  that  it's  not  true.  We 
set  out,  idly  loafing  along.  The  village  is  now  all 
but  deserted.  It  is  forbidden  to  leave  billets  be- 
fore five  o'clock,  and  the  few  laggards  that  are  still 
dawdling  about  are  shaving  the  walls  and  at  every 
street  corner  sticking  out  their  head  for  fear  of 
running  into  the  gendarmes. 

"It  wouldn't  be  the  game  to  get  pinched,"  says 
Sulphart  with  a  watchful,  mistrustful  eye.  "To 
get  caught  playing  the  giddy  goat  for  nothing  while 
the  others  are  looking  after  their  poor  feet,  that 
would  be " 

"No  danger,"  says  that  optimist  Lemoine  reas- 
suringly— he  is  always  an  optimist  when  he  has 
had  his  whack. 

"No  danger!  Here,  keep  your  mouth  shut, 
you'll  talk  the  better." 

Prisoners  in  their  bams,  with  nothing  whatever 


13^  Wooden  Crosses 

to  do,  the  men  are  sitting  in  the  windows,  their 
legs  dangling.  They  get  the  full  tickle  out  of  their 
pleasant  idleness  as  they  watch  the  passing  of  the 
companies  going  to  drill  to  learn  how  to  present 
arms. 

On  the  Cow's  Road,  where  the  Decauville  runs, 
grizzle-headed  territorials  going  to  their  daily 
work  are  playing  at  railways.  One  of  them,  a 
quite  old  fellow,  sitting  on  a  little  truck,  lets  him- 
self run  down  the  slope,  crying,  "Pom!  Pom!" 
and  the  others  are  running  behind,  shouting  and 
squealing  like  children. 

To  get  across  the  square  we  have  to  hug  the 
walls,  slink  one  by  one  behind  piles  of  logs,  take 
advantage  of  the  ground. 

"Take  a  squint,"  says  Lemoine;  "look  at  that 
lad  Broucke  giving  us  the  time  of  day." 

The  ch'timi  is  shut  up  in  the  basement  of  the 
mayor's  house,  which  has  been  turned  into  a 
prison.  With  his  head  thrust  out  through  the  bars 
of  the  ventilating  hole,  he  is  taking  the  air,  and 
without  saying  a  word,  lest  he  should  call  atten- 
tion to  us,  he  smiles  at  us. 

"To  spend  your  rest-time  in  clink  when  you've 
done  nothing  at  all  is  pretty  disgusting,  anyway," 
growls  Sulphart.  * '  There's  no  putting  up  a  denial, 
you're  just  two-pennyworth  less  than  nothing  at 
all.  If  Morache  were  to  say  to  us  sometime, 
*  You're  going  to  kiss  the  fat  on  my  tail,'  you 
couldn't  say  anything  or  do  anything  but  just  help 
him  to  let  down  his  trousers.     No  mistake  about  it, 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails         139 

we  have  got  our  grievances.   .    ,    .     Since  we've 
got  a  republic  everybody  ought  to  be  equal." 

Gilbert,  who  is  by  no  means  a  democrat,  shrugs 
up  his  shoulders  and  makes  his  little  grimace  like 
a  disappointed  monkey. 

"Equality!  that's  nothing  but  a  word,  equality. 
.    .    .     What  is  it,  equality?" 

Sulphart  reflects  for  a  moment,  then  he  replies 
in  all  seriousness : 

"EquaUty  is  to  be  able  to  say  *Go  to  hell*  to] 
anybody  and  everybody."  ^ 

At  the  end  of  the  village  we  stop  for  a  moment 
to  gossip  with  Bernadette,  who  is  herding  her  cattle. 
Gilbert  is  very  much  taken  by  her,  with  her  long 
slit  eyes  like  a  kid's,  her  cheeks  dappled  with 
freckles,  and  her  slender  neck  like  a  Paris  girl's. 
He  says  silly  things  to  her  that  make  her  burst 
into  wild  laughing,  and  I  fancy  he  is  seeing  her  on 
the  sly.  Too  simple  to  be  corrupt,  it  must  amuse 
her,  all  these  ardent  men  who  pursue  and  pester  her  « 
even  in  her  very  stable.  Perhaps,  however,  she 
may  have  singled  out  one  from  among  the  troop. 

She  thinks  about  us  when  the  regiment  is  in  the 
trenches.  And  when  the  guns  are  thundering 
worst,  she  frankly  counts  every  shot,  .  .  .  "a 
little,  ...  a  great  deal,  .  .  .  passionately,'* 
as  if  she  was  plucking  the  petals  off  a  daisy. 


**Make  haste,  Monsieur  Sulphart,  you  are  go- 
ing to  help  me  to  pluck  the  duck." 


140  Wooden  Crosses 

A  good  cosy  warm  breath  greets  us  as  we  come 
into  the  kitchen.  The  round  table,  all  white  and 
scoured  under  the  lamp,  seems  to  be  awaiting  us 
ready  for  reading.  My  carpet  slippers  are  over 
there,  near  the  stove,  with  the  big  ginger  cat  lying 
on  top  of  them.  You  might  fancy  you  were  com- 
ing back  to  your  own  fireside  on  a  rainy  day. 

Our  cheeks  still  burning  from  our  tramp  in  the 
keen  wind  of  the  open  fields,  we  puff  and  blow  and 
are  very  happy. 

"We're  better  off  here  than  in  the  trench,  eh, 
boy?"  says  Mother  Monpoix  to  us  as  she  beats  up 
in  her  salad-bowl  the  creamy  batter  for  the  fritters. 

It's  quite  true,  we  are  well  off  in  the  mill.  It  is 
now  two  months  that  we  are  coming  to  it  every 
rest:  six  days  in  the  line,  three  days  at  the  farm. 

At  first  we  slept  in  the  barns,  under  the  cart- 
shed,  in  the  garret,  and  even  on  the  staircase.  But 
afterwards,  without  paying  any  heed  to  the  Ger- 
mans, who  were  bound  from  the  spire  of  L to 

see  us  delving,  we  have  made  ourselves  dug-outs 
in  the  paddock.  From  a  distance  all  these  little 
mounds  remind  you  of  newly  made  tombs  await- 
ing their  crosses.  Of  the  frail  straw  shelters  put 
up  in  September  there  remain  now  nothing  but 
a  few  Madagascar  huts,  whose  wood  the  rains  have 
rotted,  and  broken  in  the  reeds  of  the  roof.  All 
the  same,  the  cantonment  is  always  known  as  the 
"negro  village."  The  negroes  that  I  used  to  visit 
as  a  boy  at  twenty  sous  a  time  were  not  more 
amusing,   and  when  I   contemplate  ourselves,   I 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails         141 

fancy  I  can  once  more  find  the  same  savages — not 
quite  so  black  this  time — preparing  their  cous- 
cous in  their  tin  dixies. 

We  are  a  half-score  of  comrades,  sergeants  and 
privates,  who  live  at  the  farm  in  a  sort  of  happy 
family.  There  is  Lambert  the  quartermaster; 
Bourland  of  the  Colonel's  staff;  Demachy;  Godin, 
who  was  a  sergeant  and  who  was  broken  by  Bar- 
baroux,  the  major,  for  a  folly;  Ricordeau;  and 
sometimes  the  adjutant  Berthier,  when  he  gets 
bored  in  his  own  quarters. 

In  spite  of  the  shelters  dug  out  in  the  paddock, 
in  spite  of  the  smoke  that  shows  them  that  the 
house  is  inhabited,  the  Germans  never  fire  on  this 
point.  They  saucepan  everything,  smash  up  the 
village  roof  by  roof,  but  never  as  much  as  a  single 
shell  on  the  farm.  You  would  say  that  some 
miracle  preserves  it. 

"It's  the  trees,  they  hide  it,"  Monpoix  explains. 

The  farm  is  our  house,  our  home.  We  never 
quite  leave  it,  even  when  we  are  in  the  trenches :  we 
leave  our  happiness  in  it  when  we  set  out  from  it. 

The  shepherds  of  Provence,  when  they  take  their 
flocks  into  the  mountain,  still  see  from  the  heights 
their  white-walled  farm,  the  stables,  the  green 
fields,  and  fancy  they  are  still  living  in  the  house 
with  its  roof  of  corrugated  tiles.  And  so  we,  too, 
in  our  trench,  we  still  are  living  at  the  farm,  we  see 
rising  up  and  falling  again  the  white  spiral  of 
the  pigeons,  the  light  smoke  unravelling,  much  the 
same  blue  as  the  colour  of  the  poplars;  and  in  the 


142  Wooden  Crosses 

morning  when  the  last  watching-posts  come  in,  we 
hear  the  cock  crowing  us  a  good-morning. 

''Those  are  signals,  all  that,"  repeats  Fouillard 
obstinately,  knowing  that  it  annoys  us  to  hear  it. 

As  for  signals,  they  fancy  they  see  them  every 
night,  both  there  and  elsewhere.  Sometimes  a 
patrol  dashes  out  and  runs  towards  the  light  and 
beats  up  the  countryside.  They  wander  about 
for  hours,  lose  themselves,  prowl  round  sleeping 
farms,  or  manage  to  terrify  some  woman  who  was 
going  upstairs  to  put  her  children  to  bed,  a  candle 
in  her  hand. 

When  we  speak  of  this  at  the  farm,  Monpoix 
growls : 

"They're  all  spies  in  this  district,  my  boy.  .  .  . 
Ah!  the  brigands!" 

In  the  morning,  very  early,  before  he  goes  out 
to  his  fields,  he  comes  to  yarn  with  us  in  the  dark 
kitchen  where  we  are  taking  our  chocolate.  A 
great  flaming  fire  licks  at  the  fireback,  with  its 
three  fleurs-de-lis  half  eaten  away,  and  sticking 
slices  of  bread  on  the  points  of  our  bayonets,  we 
are  making  toast  at  it. 

He  is  delighted  with  our  noisy,  rowdy  youth- 
fulness,  proper  to  soldiers.  And  then  he  loves  to 
talk  about  our  work,  everything  that  we  are 
digging  out  there  is  his  fields. 

"Good  trenches,  anyhow?  You're  not  going  to 
let  those  Prussian  bandits  through  again.  .  .  . 
And  that  listening-post,  where  are  you  putting  it 
this  time?" 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails        i43 

He  knows  this  section  of  the  lines  as  we  do, 
trench  by  trench,  without  ever  having  been  there. 
In  spite  of  his  surly  ways,  he  must  be  pretty  fond 
of  us.  The  cooks  have  told  me  that  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  attack  he  was  more  excited  and  troubled 
than  we  were.     I  asked  them: 

''He  knew  the  time  fixed  for  the  attack?'* 

"Yes,  like  everybody  else.  .  .  .  He  had 
often  enquired  about  it  from  us." 

Mother  Monpoix,  for  her  part,  knows  nothing  at 
all  * '  about  your  whole  war, ' '  but  the  daughter  takes 
after  her  father — a  hard  and  accurate  memory,  a 
peasant  woman's  memory.  One  day,  when  we 
were  talking  about  the  German  heavy  batteries, 
masked  and  hidden  in  the  black  woods,  she  had  said : 

"Ah,  yes,  on  Hill  91." 

Taken  by  surprise,  I  had  eyed  her.  Nothing 
clouded  her  look  of  simplicity.  She  must  have 
said  that  quite  innocently ;  a  number  that  stuck  in 
her  memory. 

The  Monpoix  hardly  go  out  at  all.  They  have, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  been  given  permission  to  stay 
in  the  farm,  but  they  have  been  strictly  forbidden 
to  move  about  on  the  side  of  our  lines.  To  keep 
his  legs  from  rusting,  the  father  once  upon  a  time 
used  to  make  a  round  of  the  "negro  village";  but 
he  got  into  a  row  with  the  soldiers  over  two  brand- 
new  barrows  they  had  taken  to  make  the  frame  of 
a  door  for  a  dug-out,  and  having  been  well  cursed 
by  them,  he  now  does  not  venture  to  show  himself 
in  the  cantonment. 


144  Wooden  Crosses 

Ever  since  that  he  takes  his  constitutional  in  the 
direction  of  the  batteries.  He  whistles  up  Feroce 
his  big  dog,  and  you  can  see  them  far  off  as  they 
go  to  and  fro,  the  black  man  and  the  white  dog,  as 
far  as  the  crest  of  the  ridge — ^he  never  goes  beyond. 
And  if  the  Germans  start  firing,  he  makes  no  haste 
or  hurry  to  get  back  indoors,  he  is  not  the  least 
afraid. 

Sometimes  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  if  the  whim 
takes  him,  he  goes  upstairs  and  goes  to  bed,  with- 
out a  word  to  anyone.  You  can  hear  him  walking 
about  in  the  loft,  pulling  boxes  here  and  there, 
opening  and  shutting  the  windows.  This  makes 
his  wife  laugh. 

"What  on  earth  can  he  be  doing?  He  simply 
can't  stay  quiet  in  his  place,  he  must  be  under  a 
curse." 

I  can't  tell  why,  but  I  find  myself  embarrassed 
and  uneasy  during  these  unexplained  absences 
of  his. 

What  we  pay  the  Monpoix  for  our  board  helps 
them  to  live,  for  they  have  no  money.  They  sell 
milk,  eggs,  a  little  poultry.  But  up  to  now  they 
have  not  been  willing  to  sell  any  of  their  pigeons, 
not  even  to  the  Colonel. 

''You  can't  get  hold  of  them  as  easily  as  all  that, 
isn't  that  so,  boy  ? ' '  says  old  Monpoix  to  us.  ' '  You 
go  and  catch  them,  those  creatures !  And  you  don't 
want  to  go  up  to  their  cot  by  night,  the  Prussians 
would  see  the  light.  And  then  one  gets  accustomed 
to  having  one's  live  things  about,  as  well." 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails         HS 

As  soon  as  there  is  a  fine  day,  the  unwearying 
whirligig  of  the  pigeons  makes  about  the  mill  a 
kind  of  white  coronal,  from  out  of  which  a  few 
blossoms  take  wing.  One  day,  from  out  of  the 
trench  one  was  shot  at  flying  very  low  down  above 
the  lines.  Was  it  terrified?  It  fled  away  in  the 
direction  of  the  Boches. 

But  we  shall  not  see  the  pigeons  of  the  farm  very 
much  longer  now :  the  Colonel  has  talked  of  having 
them  all  killed. 

The  Monpoix  do  not  display  indignation  at 
these  mishaps  and  broils.  They  don't  even  seem 
to  notice  the  distrust  with  which  they  are  sur- 
rounded, and  they  never  mention  it.  That  is  the 
thing  that  surprises  me  most. 

If  they  are  refused  a  pass  for  a  few  hours,  the 
father  grouses  a  bit,  and  that's  all.  The  daughter 
occasionally  makes  some  allusion  to  it  in  her 
drawling  voice,  but  without  displaying  the  least 
emotion,  as  she  might  speak  of  some  commonplace 
nuisance  that  must  be  endured  the  same  as  other 
people,  because  it's  the  war. 

A  queer  girl  she  is,  droll,  gentle,  and  quiet,  not 
very  strong,  who  talks  in  a  voice  as  pallid  as  her 
cheeks.  I  can  gather  very  well  that  we  amuse  her 
but  she  never  laughs  out  heartily  and  gustily  like 
her  mother.  She  always  has  that  contemplative 
air,  and  when  we  are  talking  seriously  instead  of 
our  noisy  chaff  and  chatter,  she  pauses  in  her  work 
to  listen  to  us,  whatever  the  theme  may  be.  She 
never  forgets  anything  of  what  she  hears — our 


146  Wooden  Crosses 

lives,  any  of  our  lives,  our  family,  our  affairs — ana 
on  her  part  she  would  never  get  a  letter  from  her 
brother,  the  chasseur  a  pied  of  whom  she  is  so 
proud,  without  reading  it  to  us. 

Our  military  work  and  labours  also  are  of  deep 
interest  to  her.  She  knows,  ever  since  she  has 
been  hearing  us  speak  about  them,  the  tortuous 
windings  of  the  trenches  in  the  woods  where  not  so 
long  ago  she  used  to  go  gathering  blackberries,  and 
the  emplacement  of  the  batteries,  that  you  might 
imagine  were  just  in  front  of  the  farm,  so  furiously 
do  the  walls  shake  when  they  are  firing.  She  never 
asks  a  question ;  she  listens  to  us  without  ever  put- 
ting in  a  word,  and  you  might  very  well  suppose 
that  she  is  thinking  of  something  else  when  you 
observe  the  vagueness  of  her  eyes. 

I  remember  how  one  morning,  in  front  of 
Morache,  who  at  that  time  used  to  take  his  choco- 
late at  the  farm,  she  was  talking  to  Demachy 
about  the  fatigue  we  had  been  on  the  night  before. 
We  had  dug  an  emplacement  at  the  verge  of  the 
wood,  and  carted  quantities  of  logs  to  make  a 
machine-gun  position.  Gilbert  was  describing 
the  spot  to  her:  under  the  fir-trees  near  the  river. 

"Chatterbox!  Dangerous  chatterbox!"  the 
Adjutant  ejaculated  in  his  squeaky  voice. 

Gilbert,  I  recollect,  had  turned  quite  pale;  but 
the  girl  had  only  looked  at  Morache  with  an  air 
that  hardly  even  displayed  surprise,  and  without 
saying  a  word  in  reply.  And  she  never  spoke  of 
this  incident  after. 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails         H7 

Emma  is  a  still  more  thoughtful  person  than  her 
mother  is.  Always  when  I  come  back  from  the 
trenches  I  find  hot  water  to  wash  my  chafed  legs. 
She  knows  everybody's  tastes,  makes  cabbage 
soup  just  as  Gilbert  likes  it,  and  makes  the  coffee 
very  black  and  strong,  to  please  us,  though  she 
prefers  not  to  drink  it  herself.  The  day  the  bat- 
talion goes  down  again  to  the  trenches  our  socks 
are  in  front  of  the  fire  ever  since  breakfast;  and 
when  a  wounded  man  goes  by,  laid  out  rigid  on  a 
truck,  she  runs  out  quickly  as  far  as  the  road  to  see 
if  it  is  not  by  chance  one  of  her  soldiers.  Directly 
one  of  us  begins  to  talk,  she  comes  near.  I  ob- 
serve her  listening  to  Berthier.  He  is  explaining 
to  Gilbert  how  he  would  set  about  a  fresh  attack, 
going  fully  and  precisely  into  every  detail.  Her 
bowl  in  her  hand,  she  is  standing  close  by  the  lamp, 
and  you  would  say  that  her  chin,  all  flecked  with 
light,  has  dipped  into  the  milk.  Is  she  even 
listening  at  all? 

She  turns  her  head,  catches  sight  of  me,  and  im- 
mediately goes  up  to  her  mother,  with  lowered 
eyes,  without  a  sound  to  be  heard  from  her  light 
shoes  on  the  tiles. 

Monpoix  is  drowsing  in  his  comer.  It  is  a  warm 
and  placid  hour  of  solid,  good  repose.  We  are 
very  comfortable.  I  stretch  my  limbs  lazily,  like 
a  dog  that  is  growing  too  hot,  and  I  sit  down 
against  the  bed,  one  arm  on  the  head-board,  one 
arm  lying  on  the  mattress.  You  feel  sheltered 
from  everything  in  these  familiar  surroundings, 


148  Wooden  Crosses 

better  than  in  the  deepest  sap.  It  is  enough  to 
pull  the  thick  curtains  and  light  the  lamp  to  feel 
yourself  at  your  own  fireside  and  to  have  nothing 
more  to  fear.  By  way  of  precaution,  we  put  a 
stretch  of  tent-canvas  in  front  of  the  window  as 
well.  The  night  shall  have  none  of  our  warmth, 
not  a  thread  of  our  light. 

We  are  at  our  own  fireside,  far  from  all  danger, 
far  from  the  war.  The  huge  beams  of  the  shelters 
fear  the  great  shells,  and  make  themselves  into 
stiff  props  and  buttresses;  here  it  is  a  pleasant  wall 
hung  with  pink  paper  that  is  our  protection.  We 
have  complete  confidence  in  it.  Better  than  aU 
the  parapets  in  the  world  do  we  feel  ourselves  de- 
fended by  this  light  that  we  find  so  delightful  after 
the  yellow,  jumping  flame  of  candles.  We  feel  our- 
selves defended  by  the  fire  snoring  and  roaring,  by 
the  smoking  pot,  by  all  this  happiness  of  low  degree 
— and  even  by  the  stimulating  smell  of  those  onions, 
exactly  like  little  white  fruit,  lying  on  a  plate. 


A  regular  family  dinner,  one  of  those  dinners  in 
the  depth  of  winter,  more  intimate,  more  cordial 
than  any  other,  when  happiness,  just  feeling  the 
cold  a  little,  comes  and  nestles  close  up  to  the  fire. 

Are  we  soldiers?  Hardly — at  any  rate,  we  are 
forgetting  it.  There  is  certainly  Berthier's  mon- 
key-jacket, one  or  two  blue  coats;  but  the  others 
are  in  sweaters,  in  waistcoats,  with  nothing  about 
them  of  the  soldier.     Demachy  has  even  had  sent 


/ 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails        i49 

to  him  heavy  pyjamas  with  silk  facings,  which  has 
definitely  and  for  good  ruined  him  in  the  opinion 
of  the  "  negro  village,"  and  marked  him  out  for  the 
persistent  malevolence  of  Morache. 

Heedless  and  robust,  our  five-and-twenty  years 
break  out  in  laughter.  Life  is  a  great  field  stretch- 
ing in  front  of  us  in  which  we  are  to  run  our  course. 

To  die!  Come,  now!  He  will  die,  maybe,  and 
our  neighbour,  and  others  besides;  but  oneself — 
one  can't  possibly  die,  oneself.  ...  It  cannot 
be  that  it  should  be  lost  at  one  stroke,  all  this 
youth,  this  joy,  this  strength,  with  which  one  is 
brimful  and  running  over.  You  have  seen  ten 
die,  you  will  see  a  hundred  fall,  but  that  your 
own  turn  might  come  to  be  a  little  blue  tum- 
bled heap  in  the  middle  of  the  fields,  that  you 
never  believe  at  all.  In  spite  of  death  that  follows 
on  our  heels  and  takes  whenever  he  pleases  the 
ones  he  pleases,  an  insensate  confidence  never 
leaves  us.  It  is  not  true ;  there  is  no  death !  Can 
any  one  possibly  die  when  we  laugh  under  the 
lighted  lamp,  bending  over  the  dish  from  which 
there  rises  a  fresh  fragrance  of  burnet  and  shallots? 

Besides,  we  never  speak  about  war;  it  is  forbid- 
den during  meals.  It  is  equally  forbidden  to  talk 
slang  and  to  let  the  conversation  turn  on  service 
matters.  For  every  infraction  of  these  rules  the 
culprit  must  pay  a  fine  of  two  sous  into  the  pool; 
this  is  our  game  every  day.  Ricordeau,  our  new 
sergeant,  dribbles  away  the  whole  of  his  eighteen 
sous  of  daily  pay.    And  yet  he  talks  with  much 


I50  Wooden  Crosses 

caution,  for  we  have  made  him  very  mistrustful; 
but  Sulphart  always  finds  new  tricks  to  bring  the 
conversation  round  to  the  slippery  places,  and  all 
at  once  the  unlucky  word  escapes  him — ^last  night's 
fatigue,  the  attack  of  the  sixteenth,  the  listening- 
post.   .    .    . 

"Two  sous!  two  sous!"  we  all  shout.  If  by  ill- 
luck  Ricordeau  is  fain  to  put  up  a  defence,  it  only 
gets  him  deeper  in  the  mud.  "  I'm  not  having  any," 
he  protests,  wanting  to  get  out  of  paying  his  fine. 

At  once  everybody  shouts  louder  still: 

** That's  slang!     Two  sous  more!"   .    .    . 

What  do  we  talk  about?  Everything,  pell-mell, 
all  at  qnce.  We  talk  about  our  trades,  our  love 
affairs,  our  concerns  generally,  and  at  all  points 
gaily.  Everyone's  life  is  sliced  up  into  anecdotes, 
and  though  nobody  means  to  tell  lies,  everybody 
embroiders  just  a  trifle :  after  all,  there  are  so  very 
few  things  in  our  past,  the  barely  born  past  of  the 
youthful. 

The  least  merry  of  us  never  has  sad  recollections 
to  recount,  and  there  are  none  even  to  be  guessed 
at  in  any  of  our  lives.  We  have  none  the  less 
known  grief  and  distress.  Yes,  but  that's  all  a 
thing  of  the  past.  ...  Of  this  life  man  retains 
only  pleasant  memories ;  as  for  the  others,  the  lapse 
of  time  effaces  them,  and  there  is  no  pang  whose 
wound  oblivion  does  not  heal,  no  grief  for  which 
no  consolation  can  be  found. 

The  past  takes  on  beauty;  seen  from  afar,  all 
human  beings  seem  better.    With  what  love,  with 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails        151 

what  tender  affection,  do  we  speak  of  wives,  mis- 
tresses, betrothed!  They  are  all  frank  and  faith- 
ful and  merry,  and  you  might  imagine  if  you  heard 
us  on  these  evenings  that  there  was  nothing  save 
sheer  happiness  in  life. 

Now  and  then  something  comes  whack  against 
the  wall,  like  the  crack  of  a  whip.  Clack!  It  is  a 
stray  bullet. 

"Come  in,"  calls  Demachy. 

If  any  one  speaks  of  the  Fritz  who  has  fired  it, 
he  whole  table  grows  excited.  "Two  sous!  two 
sous!"  and  everybody  laughs. 

"It  has  taken  the  war  to  make  us  learn  that  we 
were  happy,"  says  Berthier,  always  serious. 

"Aye,  we  had  to  learn  to  know  distress,"  agrees 
\  Gilbert.  "Before,  we  knew  nothing  at  all,  we 
were  an  ungrateful  lot." 

Now  we  reHsh  the  least  joy:  like  a  dessert  that 
^  is  generally  denied  us.  Happiness  is  found  every- 
where ;  it  lies  in  the  dug-out  where  the  rain  doesn't 
come  through,  soup  that  is  really  hot,  the  Htter  of 
dirty  straw  in  which  we  go  to  bed,  the  comical  tale 
[  related  by  a  pal,  a  night  with  no  fatigue  to  go  out 
on.  .  .  .  Happiness  .  .  .  but  it  is  held  in  the 
two  pages  of  a  letter  from  home,  in  the  drop  of  rum 
at  the  bottom  of  a  cup.  Like  poor  children  who 
build  a  palace  with  a  few  bits  of  board,  the  soldier 
makes  happiness  out  of  everything  that  comes 
his  way. 

A  stone,  a  mere  stone  on  which  you  can  set  your 
feet  in  the  midst  of  a  river  of  mud,  even  that  is 


152  Wooden  Crosses 

happiness.  But  you  must  first  have  gone  through 
\the  mud  to  find  it  out. 

I  try  to  penetrate  the  future,  to  see  beyond  the 
time  of  war  into  that  misty  distance  gilded  Hke  a 
summer  dawn.  Shall  we  ever  reach  as  far  as  that? 
And  what  will  it  give  us?  Shall  we  ever  be  cleansed 
of  this  long  suffering?  Shall  we  ever  forget  this 
misery,  this  mud,  this  blood,  this  slavery?  Oh 
yes,  I  am  fully  convinced  of  it;  we  shall  forget,  and 
there  will  remain  in  our  memory  nothing  but  a  few 
images  of  battle  that  will  not  then  be  made  ugly  by 
fear,  a  few  bits  of  nonsense  and  fun,  some  evenings 
such  as  this.   .    .    .     And  I  say  to  them: 

"You  will  see.  .  .  .  Years  will  pass  away. 
Then  one  day  we  shall  meet  each  other  again,  we 
will  talk  about  the  boys,  about  the  trenches,  about 
the  attacks,  about  our  miseries  and  our  bits  of  fun, 
and  we  will  laugh  and  say:  *Ah,  those  were  the 
V    good  days!'   ..." 

At  that  they  all  protest  vehemently  and  noisily, 
even  Berthier. 

"Hey!  that'll  do!" 

**If  you  like  it,  better  enlist  again!" 

* '  Good  days,  reliefs  in  the  mud ! — ^you're  coming 
it  a  bit  strong." 

"And  fatigue  on  corrugated  iron  that  night  it 
was  raining  cats  and  dogs,  have  you  forgotten 
that?    You  howled  enough  about  it,  anyway." 

"Do  you  call  it  a  good  day,  the  sixteenth  at  two 
minutes  to  twelve  noon?" 

I  laugh,  delighted  at  hearing  their  outcry. 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails        153 

"You'll  see!" 

Mother  Monpoix,  who  is  enjoying  herself  as 
much  as  we  are,  twisting  the  comer  of  her  blue 
apron,  applauds  and  agrees  with  me  through  the 
tumult. 

"Certainly  you  will  regret  the  farm.** 

"We'll  come  back  to  see  it,  ma!" 

Bourland  has  got  up  to  go  and  get  his  violin. 
He  has  made  it  himself  with  a  cigar-box  and  strings 
he  got  from  Paris,  and  it  is  to  this  toy,  this  instru- 
ment fit  for  a  circus,  that  we  owe  our  very  best 
evenings. 

He  tunes  it — two  notes — and  immediately  we 
are  silent.  Music,  the  friend  of  every  one  of 
us.    .    .    . 

It  is  the  Adagio  of  the  Symphonie  Pathetique  he 
is  playing.  Everything  grows  still  and  soothed 
and  placid.  Music  as  ardent  and  tender  as  our 
hearts.  Is  there  anything  pathetic  in  this  long 
thrill?  No,  .  .  .  it  is  like  a  beautiful  heart- 
seizing  dream.  And  then,  what  matter  what  he 
plays?  .  .  .  Ase's  Deaths  an  aria  of  Bach's.  I 
cannot  tell  now.  My  thought  has  ceased  to  follow. 
So  many  stretched  webs  on  which  our  dreams  are 
busy  with  their  delicious  broidery. 

We  listen,  our  minds  and  our  eyes  gone  wander- 
ing. Here  are  the  beloved  voices  of  old  days  com- 
ing to  revisit  us.  How  sweet  they  are,  heard  from 
how  far  away !  We  are  dreaming.  ...  It  is  a 
Sunday  at  Colonne's,  the  studio  where  the  piano 
let  fall  one  by  one  like  pearls  the  drops  of  the 


154  Wooden  Crosses 

Jardin  sous  la  Pluie,  the  air  a  sweet  friend  was 
singing. 

Berthier,  his  mouth  a  Httle  open  and  his  hands 
locked  together,  Hstens  as  a  man  prays.  I  see 
nothing  of  Gilbert  but  his  smooth  straight  fore- 
head, like  an  obstinate  child's,  above  the  inter- 
laced fingers  that  cover  his  eyes.  Sulphart  has 
taken  on  a  serious  air,  his  features  tense  as  though 
determined  to  understand.  Then  I  shut  my 
eyelids  down  so  as  to  see  no  more. 

To  be  no  more  now  than  a  charmed  soul,  and  a 
soul  that  sleeps.  Everything  is  annihilated.  .  .  . 
Far,  far  is  the  present,  .  .  .  the  oaths,  the  death 
rattles,  the  guns,  all  the  noises  that  make  up  our 
poor  lives  of  animals,  all  that  can  never  harden 
our  soul  and  wither  its  infinite  tenderness.  It 
finds  new  birth  again,  an  August  garden  under  a 
reviving  shower.  And  ten  soldiers  are  now  no 
more  than  a  single  heart  being  lulled  and  soothed 
N  like  a  child  to  slumber,  ten  soldier-men.   .    .    . 

"The  Meditation  de  Thais,  Bourland!** 

"No!  the  Valse  des  Omhresr 

Gilbert,  who  has  a  nice  voice,  sings  ballads, 
mezza  voce,  and  all  the  other  voices  hum  the  chorus. 
And  then  it  is  an  evocation  of  Paris,  lovely  au- 
tumnal Paris,  whose  rain-washed  footwalks  shim- 
mer and  gleam  under  the  street-lamps.  We  sing 
them  all,  one  after  the  other,  all  the  successes  of 
last  winter,  and  from  chorus  to  chorus  the  voices 
grow  louder  and  louder.  Thrown  well  back  in 
our  chairs,  we  are  shouting  now,  heedless,  ex- 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails         i55 

panded,  blown  out  with  too  much  joy.  Bourland's 
violin  can  be  heard  no  longer,  lost  in  this  deafening 
choir;  we  are  simply  yelling.    .    .    . 

"Hark!" 

A  sudden  silence  falls.  Bourland  has  stopped, 
bow  in  air.  Surprised  faces  are  intent.  .  .  .  We 
are  listening,  uneasy.     What  can  it  be? 

The  same  fist  beats  upon  the  door,  and  a  voice 
comes  from  the  night  outside. 

*  *  A  wounded  man . ' ' 

Quickly  we  open ;  with  eyelids  blinking  he  comes 
inside.  He  is  livid  and  pale,  with  big  eyes  en- 
circled with  black  rings  that  swallow  up  his  cheeks. 
His  left  arm  is  in  a  sling  made  with  a  big  dirty 
handkerchief,  in  which  a  red  splash  is  seen  growing 
bigger,  and  the  blood,  sliding  down  till  it  reaches 
his  lifeless  hand,  drips  as  he  comes  along. 

"No,  no  rum.     I'd  rather  have  wine." 

Monpoix's  hand  shakes  as  he  pours  it  out  for 
him.  Speechless,  embarrassed,  we  press  round  our 
comrade.  He  has  sat  down  heavily,  all  his  ener- 
gy simply  emptied  out  of  him.  There  is  not  a 
sound  now  but  the  gurgling  of  the  wine  in  his 
dry  throat. 

The  dog  has  waked  up.  He  rises,  sniffs  at  the 
newcomer's  tracks,  and  drop  by  drop  he  licks  up 
the  still  warm  blood  from  the  tiles. 


Six  days  more  of  the  trenches — six  days  of  pour- 
ing rain — and  here  we  are  in  the  farm  again.     I  am 


15^  Wooden  Crosses 

writing.  Sitting  huddled  up  close  against  the  stove, 
his  back  humped  and  rounded,  Monpoix  has  let 
his  pipe  go  out.  Nothing  can  be  heard  but  the 
soup  simmering  and  the  man's  labouring  breathing 
that  whistles  in  and  out. 

I  find  him  a  changed  man  ever  since  the  attack. 
He  never  jokes  with  us  now  as  he  used  to  do.  He 
remains  for  hours  at  a  time  without  saying  a  word, 
sluggishly  fastened  to  his  low  chair;  and  when  we 
are  talking  among  ourselves,  he  barely  turns  his 
head  to  listen  to  us,  with  an  air  of  embarrassment, 
as  though  he  was  afraid  he  might  meet  with  a  snub. 

His  wife  says  he  is  ill.  And  yet  he  never  makes 
any  complaint.  He  mumbled  that  he  didn't  want 
to  see  the  regimental  doctor,  and  he  is  treating 
himself  after  his  own  fashion  with  bowls  of  home 
made  remedies. 

What  can  be  the  matter  with  him?  I  often 
think  over  it.  Without  any  doubt  his  drawn 
features,  the  fever  that  shakes  him  every  night, 
show  that  he  is  a  sick  man,  but  this  reason  is  not 
enough  to  satisfy  me.  It  seems  to  me  that  there 
must  needs  be  something  else  hidden  behind  this 
prostration;  it  is  no  mere  simple  malady  that  is 
able  to  break  him  down  like  this;  and  pin  him 
down  for  whole  days  on  end  in  front  of  his  fire 
without  a  word  for  anybody.  He  does  not  seem 
to  be  in  pain  in  any  way.  He  is  reflecting,  brood- 
ing, that  is  all. 

**He  is  a  man  who  digs  in  himself,"  is  the  diag- 
nosis of  Maroux,  who  once  upon  a  time  used  to  go 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails        157 

out  with  him  to  tell  him  stories  about  sport  and 
shooting. 

You  might  say,  in  fact,  that  some  secret  grief  is 
tormenting  him.  And  yet  the  news  from  his  son 
is  always  good.  What  can  he  be  thinking  about 
during  these  long  siestas?  He  never  goes  out  now, 
even  at  night,  to  smoke  his  pipe.  And  yet  the 
other  evening  he  got  up,  took  his  tobacco-pouch, 
and  moved  towards  the  door  of  the  garden  close 
with  a  dragging  step.  He  opened  it  and  stopped 
short  on  the  threshold,  looking  out  over  the  dark 
field  where  men  were  calling  out  to  one  another. 
Whether  it  was  the  cold  wind,  or  whether  it  was 
the  deep  shadow,  I  saw  him  shiver.  With  a  brutal 
movement  he  shut  the  door  again,  and  came  back 
to  take  his  seat  in  his  old  place  in  front  of  the  stove. 
He  did  not  smoke  at  all  that  night. 

What  secret  anxiety  is  working  in  him,  then? 
He  is  not  being  bothered  more  than  he  was  before 
the  attack — nay,  the  reverse  is  the  case.  He  has 
even  been  offered  on  several  occasions  passes  that 
he  has  not  cared  to  take. 

Nothing  interests  him  now,  not  even  the  jump- 
ing and  antics  of  Feroce. 

"Why  don't  you  go  off  and  make  a  little  round 
with  the  dog.  Monsieur  Monpoix?" 

"I  haven't  any  fancy  for  going  out,  boy." 

Several  times  Berthier  has  said  to  him: 

**We  are  splitting  your  head,  yelling  like  this. 
We'll  eat  in  the  kitchen." 

Mother  Monpoix  and  Emma  have  protested: 


158  Wooden  Crosses 

not  to  hear  us  laughing  any  more,  singing,  chaffing 
one  another,  .  .  .  ah  no!  .  .  .  And  the  old 
man  said  the  same  as  they  did. 

''On  the  contrary,  do  stay  here.  To  hear  you 
talking  gives  my  mind  a  change  of  thoughts." 

All  the  same,  he  hardly  speaks  to  us.  No  longer 
now  does  he  question  us  as  in  old  days  about  the 
new  trenches,  our  fatigues,  our  patrols,  all  the 
things  that  used  to  interest  him  so  much.  On 
the  contrary,  when  we  speak  about  them  he  has 
always  some  excuse  to  go  away,  or  else  he  puts 
down  his  head  and  half  shuts  his  eyes,  as  if  he  was 
trying  to  go  to  sleep.  I  am  not  the  only  one  who 
has  noticed  this. 

"The  poor  fellow!"  Gilbert  said  to  me  pityingly. 

"You  would  think  that  it  hurts  him  in  some  way 
when  any  one  speaks  of  the  attack." 

It*s  quite  true.  Not  once  has  he  ever  spoken  to 
us  about  the  affair  of  the  sixteenth,  never  has  he 
come  near  us  to  listen  to  the  account  of  it.  When 
any  one  mentions  it,  he  does  not  even  turn  his  eyes 
that  way.  Only  you  would  say  that  his  back 
humps  itself  still  more,  and  that  his  head  droops 
lower.  ...  I  see  nothing  but  his  back,  his  broad 
round  back,  but  I  divine  in  it,  hidden  close,  I  know 
not  what  sullen  attentiveness.  You  could  swear 
that  he  is  sleeping,  and  yet  he  is  listening — I  am 
sure  he  is  listening. 

The  other  evening  Berthier  was  telling  the  bag- 
gage-master sergeant  about  the  falling  back 
through  the  V-shaped  trench  when  we  had  been 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails         159 

obliged  to  withdraw.  A  few  men  and  himself 
were  covering  the  movement,  firing  on  the  grey 
backs  that  were  cutting  across  by  the  fields,  and 
flinging  down  across  the  trench  broken  lengths  of 
of  chevaux  de  frise,  logs,  everything  that  was  to 
hand.  In  the  straight  lines  he  made  his  men  run, 
for  he  feared  an  enfilading  fire,  and  as  they  kept 
looking  behind  them,  they  kept  catching  their 
feet  in  the  dead  bodies  and  tumbling  down  and 
swearing.  Happily,  the  wounded  had  already 
been  carried  off,  for  now  it  was  too  late  for  any- 
thing of  that  kind.  As  far  as  the  first  line  they 
had  only  come  across  one  wounded  man.  He  was 
sitting  on  thi  parapet  with  his  legs  hanging  down 
as  though  on  the  edge  of  a  ditch,  no  longer  fearing 
the  bullets,  and  he  was  calling  out  in  a  long,  per- 
sistent complaint:  **I  can't  see  clearly.  .  .  . 
Don't  leave  me!  ...  I  can't  see  clearly."  A 
broad  red  ribbon  was  trickling  from  his  temple 
and  making  a  stripe  across  his  cheek. 

He  had  heard  them  as  they  went  by  at  full  tilt, 
and  having  doubtless  guessed  that  we  were  falling 
back,  he  had  run  behind  them,  at  first  bending  low 
almost  on  hands  and  feet,  then  bolt  upright,  stag- 
gering, fumbling  at  the  night  with  his  bewildered, 
frightened  hands.  His  grievous  suppHcation  had 
pursued  them  for  a  moment.  "Don't  leave  me 
behind,  boys!  I  swear  to  you  I  won't  cry  out. 
.  .  . "  Then  a  step  into  the  vacancy  of  a  trench, 
and  in  one  mass,  with  his  hands  thrust  out  in  front, 
the  blind  man  had  fallen  into  his  grave.     As  they 


i6o  Wooden  Crosses 

turned  the  angle  of  the  redan  they  had  heard  the 
dry  voice  of  a  mauser.  The  coup  de  grdce^  without 
a  doubt. 

By  chance  I  was  looking  at  Monpoix  while 
Berthier  was  speaking.  He  had  half  raised  his 
head  to  listen,  and  was  opening  strange  eyes,  big 
staring  eyes  whose  lids  never  moved.  But  he  had 
seen  me,  and  at  once  he  had  dropped  his  head 
again,  and  again  went  off  to  his  sleeping. 

It  was  nothing,  that  look  I  caught ;  and  yet  that 
evening  strange  notions  came  to  me.  In  spite  of 
myself  I  keep  observing  the  old  man. 

What  can  he  be  thinking  about  for  whole  days 
on  end?  I  fancy  now  that  I  know.  It  is  really 
nothing,  not  even  as  much  as  a  supposition,  noth- 
ing but  a  vague  uneasiness,  an  irrational  pang  that 
is  taking  shape  and  crystallizing,  but  that  is  borne 
in  on  my  mind,  with  little  circumstances  that  all 
fall  in  together,  commonplace  little  coincidences. 
I  am  closely  watching  his  least  movements  at  the 
moment,  as  if  I  was  certain  to  make  some 
discovery. 

At  times  I  stand  out  against  this  obscure  sugges- 
tion. Come,  now,  this  is  ridiculous!  Why  should 
I  want  to  lend  this  sick  peasant  a  soul  out  of  a 
novel?  He  suffers  in  the  same  way  as  his  cattle 
might  suffer,  poor  brutes  that,  not  knowing  how 
to  tell  their  trouble,  lie  down  with  their  masks  to 
the  wall  and  sleep  upon  their  pain.  There  is  no 
room  for  psychology  in  all  that. 

And  yet,   and   nevertheless.   .    .    .     My  hesi- 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails         i6i 

tating  doubts  grow  precise,  it  is  like  a  presenti- 
ment that  no  amount   of   reasoning  can   dispel. 

He  must  feel  this  persistent  attention  that  fol- 
lows him,  and  he  does  not  like  us  to  remain  alone 
together.  You  might  think  he  is  afraid  I  might 
speak  to  him.  I  go  and  sit  down  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  stove  from  him,  astride  upon  a  chair, 
my  chin  set  on  my  folded  arms  as  if  I  was  going 
to  have  a  good  yam  with  him.  He  does  not  even 
open  his  eyes.  None  the  less  I  am  certain  he 
knows  I  am  there  and  that  it  embarrasses  him.  I 
could  say  the  words  that  frighten  him:  I  know 
what  they  are.  Our  two  anguishes  guess  at  one 
another.  After  a  moment,  I  think  I  can  see  his 
big  hands  with  their  short  nails,  trembling  and 
quaking  on  his  knees  covered  with  well-worn 
corduroy.  Will  he  at  length  open  his  eyes  and 
look  at  me  face  to  face? 

No.  Little  by  little  his  breathing  lengthens, 
grows  more  regular.  He  has  gone  to  sleep.  .  .  . 
Then  all  my  scaffolding  of  suspicions  falls  to  the 
ground  at  one  blow,  and  as  his  hands  go  on  still 
trembling,  shivering  with  fever,  I  would  like  to 
awake  him,  ashamed  of  having  been  cruel  in  my 
own  mind,  and  talk  to  him  as  heretofore,  gaily, 
like  a  comrade. 

Why  have  I  got  it  into  my  head  that  he  was 
afraid  to  pass  close  to  the  bam  where  the  clothes 
and  belongings  of  the  dead  are  piled  up?  The 
other  day,  as  he  was  going  along  in  front  of  it,  I 
joined  him.     Escaped  from  the  bursting  packs, 


i62  Wooden  Crosses 

there  was  underwear  and  linen  trailing  right  up  to 
the  road. 

* '  Look,"  I  said  to  him, ' '  that  is  long  Vairon's  pack. 
Those  are  his  mother's  letters  sticking  out  of  it.  She 
was  in  the  hospital.  She  had  starved  herself  to 
send  him  a  few  sous,  good  knitted  vests,  poor  old 
thing!   .    .    .    Two  killed  with  one  blow." 

He  turned  to  me,  pale  and  haggard. 

''You  mustn't  go  over  that  to  me,  boy.  My 
son  is  a  soldier,  too." 

I  did  not  know  what  to  say,  and  I  let  him  go 
indoors  without  venturing  to  follow  him.  That 
night  I  almost  hesitated  to  push  open  the  door  of 
the  room  from  which  I  heard  his  voice,  out  of 
breath.  I  went  in  with  Bourland.  The  old  man 
was  putting  a  question  to  Gilbert : 

"Is  it  true  that  that  long  Vairon,  he  was  still 
calling  out  the  next  morning,  lying  wounded  in  the 
plain?" 

Having  caught  sight  of  us,  he  stopped,  quickly 
turning  his  eyes  away.  He  never  spoke  again 
that  evening,  and  went  up  to  bed  before  we  sat 
down  to  the  table.  I  go  through  all  that  once  more 
in  memory,  and  I  write  no  more.  I  look  at  the 
old  man,  breathing  in  pants,  his  shoulders  shaking. 
He  looks  very  ill  to-night.  His  cheeks  can  be  sur- 
mised grey  and  hollow  under  his  week-old  beard. 
I  find  him  still  more  prostrated  than  in  our  last 
spell  out  of  the  trenches.  Always  sunk  in  lethargy 
on  his  low  chair,  he  pursues  his  evil  dreams. 

And  in  the  dying  light  that  rubs  with  a  frozen 


The  Mill  with  No  Sail  163 

ray  the  polished  backs  of  the  chairs,  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  am  about  to  see,  bowed  over  him,  all  the 
shades  of  all  our  dead,  for  whom  the  clock  is 
telling  its  rosary. 


They  are  burying  Monpoix.  He  died  the  other 
night,  without  a  murmur,  without  any  dying 
struggle.  At  daybreak  his  wife  found  him  cold 
in  his  bed. 

His  bier,  carried  by  hand,  has  just  set  off 
through  the  fields,  two  black  robes  behind  it,  a  few 
peasants  and  some  soldiers.  As  I  was  barely  able 
to  walk,  I  stayed  behind  at  the  farm  alone.  I  feel 
it  all  vast  and  gloomy  around  me. 

Nothing  can  be  heard  now  except  the  sound  of 
the  pigeons  hopping  and  flitting  about  the  garret. 
How  disquieting  it  is,  this  great  silence  that  speaks 
of  death!  I  feel  myself  solitary  and  yet  threat- 
ened. The  two  trestle  stools  set  close  together 
seem  still  to  be  awaiting  his  coffin.  It  has  indeed 
come  back  once  already.   .    .    . 

At  the  moment  the  incident,  in  reality  very 
commonplace  in  itself,  had  no  effect  on  me:  but 
now,  as  I  stay  here  alone,  a  kind  of  vague  disquiet 
gains  upon  me.     I  ought  not  to  think  of  it  any  more. 

Just  as  the  funeral  procession  had  gone  across 
the  grassland  and  was  reaching  the  road,  the  Ger- 
mans caught  sight  of  us  and  began  to  fire.  The  fi  rst 
shell  feU  short,  the  next  was  fifty  paces  off,  and 
the  cortege  was  at  once  broken  to  pieces.     The 


1 64  Wooden  Crosses 

four  bearers — I  can  see  them  yet — ^had  stopped 
dead,  bewildered,  and  then,  seeing  the  peasants 
running  away,  they  heavily  put  down  the  stretcher 
from  which  the  bier  had  tumbled,  and  they  jumped 
into  the  ditch  behind  us.  It  was  high  time:  the 
third  shell  burst  squarely  on  the  slope,  riddling 
the  coffin.  In  single  file  and  bending  double,  we 
passed  on,  pushing  each  other  along,  and  the  dead 
man  remained  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  path,  his 
overturned  bier  escaped  from  under  its  black  pall. 
The  mother  and  the  daughter,  who  are  never 
afraid,  had  run  away  shrieking;  and  when  the 
boys  brought  the  bier  back  to  the  farm,  Emma 
fainted.  She  had  been  the  first  to  remark  that 
the  coffin  was  half  unfastened,  as  if  the  old  man 
had  made  an  attempt  to  get  out  of  it  and  run 
away  too. 

His  bier  lying  on  the  two  stools,  he  remained 
until  twilight  in  his  farm  that  he  was  fain  not  to 
leave.  As  the  shadows  were  falling  the  peasants 
came  back,  and  the  porters  once  more  took  up 
their  burden.  They  have  only  just  gone:  outside 
the  dog  is  still  howling,  tugging  at  his  chain. 

This  tragical  return  of  the  old  man  struck  me  as 
something  significant.  Never  had  they  shelled  so 
close  to  the  farm.  Are  they  going  to  destroy  it  now 
that  he  is  there  no  longer?  An  inexplicable  dis- 
quiet overwhelms  me.  I  have  the  disagreeable  im- 
pression of  having  someone  behind  me,  very  close. 

Then,  a  vague  fear  running  through  my  skin,  I 
get  up,    and  without   looking  round,  without   a 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails         165 

glance  at  the  old  man's  low  chair,  I  go  out  into  the 
garden  whistling.  Quick,  I  pull  the  door  to 
behind  me.   .    .    . 

Night  is  nearly  come.  The  stone  well  has  the 
air  of  a  tomb.  On  the  other  side  of  the  runnel  a 
relief  goes  by,  a  black  troop,  humming  as  it  goes; 
heavy  confused  silhouettes  bristling  with  pickaxes 
and  rifles,  a  band  of  navvies  under  arms.  A  few 
laggards  follow,  leaning  on  thick  staves.  Terri- 
torials, without  any  doubt. 

Not  a  single  shot  comes  from  the  trenches.  Far 
away,  round  Berry,  there  is  the  dull  sound  of  guns. 
The  willows  are  dreaming  with  bowed  heads  about 
the  pool ;  in  the  shadows  the  ducks  as  they  lie  have 
all  the  airs  of  swans.  The  whole  of  the  night  is 
contained  in  that  stagnant  water.  The  trees  carve 
their  reflection  in  it,  exact,  branch  by  branch,  and 
in  it  you  can  see  reduplicated  the  sky  that  seems 
made  of  tin,  the  big  melancholy  sky  that  gazes 
down  at  its  own  image. 

Not  a  sound  now  of  any  kind.  In  the  country 
a  lost  voice,  a  partridge,  is  drivelling.  That  huge 
silence  calms  me.  .  .  .  Wait,  why  is  Feroce  not 
barking  any  more? 

Suddenly  in  the  pigeon-house  there  stirs  a  slight 
sound  of  feathers,  the  rustling  sound  that  can  be 
heard  when  a  poultry -house  is  wakened.  One 
pigeon,  two  pigeons  come  out,  and  with  one  wing- 
beat  go  and  take  their  place  on  a  branch.  .  .  . 
Why?    Who  has  disturbed  them? 

An  absurd  notion  comes  to  me :  Emma  has  come 


1 66  Wooden  Crosses 

back,  has  climbed  up  there  in  secret,  and  she  is 
doing  something — she  is  doing  what  the  old  man 
used  to  do.  .  .  .  My  mind  on  the  alert,  my 
heart  beating  wildly,  I  keep  on  listening.  Some- 
thing cracked;  was  it  a  window  someone  was 
opening? 

So  much  the  worse!  I  mean  to  find  out.  I  go 
into  the  farm  through  the  dark  bake-house.  My 
hands  feel  and  fumble  in  front  of  me.  I  knock 
up  against  a  barrow,  and  my  startled  heart  beats, 
beats  furiously.    .    .    . 

I  go  up  the  wooden  stair.  Lord,  how  it  creaks! 
.  .  .  The  garret.  A  little  of  the  blue  night 
comes  through  the  dirty  panes  of  the  windows.  In 
the  shadow  there  are  crouching  shapes.  .  .  . 
No,  nothing,  only  sacks. 

My  legs  are  shaking.  For  all  that,  I  am  not 
afraid.  I  go  forward  with  muffled  footfall,  and 
my  cold  hands  ransack  the  blackness,  recognize 
things.  My  peering  eyes  are  growing  accustomed 
to  the  dark.  I  recognize  a  soldier's  coat  that  is 
drying  with  its  sleeves  hanging  down. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  wooden  partition  the 
pigeons  are  still  excited  and  stirring.  I  come  up, 
and  slowly,  so  as  to  stifle  the  shrill  outcry  of  the 
creaking  hinges,  I  push  open  the  door.  My  head 
thrust  forward,  my  fist  clenched,  I  look  around. 
Nothing,  nothing.   .    .    . 

The  moonlight  filtering  through  the  tiles  shines 
clear  on  the  pigeons  sitting  in  round  balls  on  their 
perches.     One  of  them  coos.     Outside  the  wind 


The  Mill  with  No  Sails         167 

whistles    a    shrill    tune    through    tightly    pressed 
lips.   .    .    . 

Then  I  shut  the  creaking  door  again,  and  alone, 
all  alone  in  the  dark  loft,  I  look  at  the  melancholy 
cast-off  with  its  hanging  arms,  this  tired,  flabby 
coat  in  which  a  soldier  will  have  to  die. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  THE  CAf6  DE  la  MARINE 

They  had  told  Demachy:  ''You'll  find  them  at 
the  Cafe  de  la  Marine,  near  the  stone  bridge." 

The  big  bridge  with  its  broken  piers  was  now 
only  crossed  by  night.  By  day  it  was  enough  for 
a  cyclist  to  show  himself  on  it  to  let  loose  a  salvo 
that  thrashed  the  water  in  fury  or  tore  a  lump  off 
the  parapet.  Arriving  at  the  end  of  the  afternoon, 
Demachy  crossed  the  river  farther  up,  by  the 
bridge  of  boats. 

In  the  greenish  water,  where  hardly  a  ripple 
could  be  seen,  the  tall  poplars  were  diving  up  to 
their  very  summits,  as  if  they  had  sought  to  attain 
the  sky  in  the  quiet  water  as  well  as  in  the  air.  A 
big  barge  was  sleeping  up  on  the  steep  bank  near 
the  edge,  lying  on  its  side.  The  gaps  where  its 
planks  had  been  torn  away  displayed  its  empty 
hold  between  its  huge  wooden  ribs,  and  you  asked 
yourself  how  this  whale  carcass  had  come  to  be 
stranded  so  far  from  home. 

The  river  was  rustling  and  whispering,  breaking 
against  the  boats  forming  the  bridge.  They  were 
those  little  fisherman's  boats,  green  or  black,  that 
you  sent  along  with  a  lazy  oar  on  fine  Sundays  in 

i68 


In  the  Cafe  de  la  Marine       169 

summer.  On  the  prow  of  the  freshest  of  them, 
painted  in  white,  you  might  read  a  name:  "Lu- 
cienne  Bremont,  Roucy."  A  splinter  from  a  shell 
had  wounded  it  in  the  side. 

All  along  the  steep  bank  wooden  crosses,  slender 
and  bare,  made  of  boards  or  of  branches  crossed 
and  fastened  together,  looked  at  the  water  as  it 
ran.  They  were  to  be  seen  everywhere,  and  even 
in  the  flooded  plain,  where  red  kepis  were  floating 
like  strange  waterlilies. 

With  the  floods  the  crosses  must  needs  go  with 
the  stream  of  grey  water,  to  be  stranded  who 
knows  where? — at  the  feet  of  a  child  who  would 
spell  out  on  the  frayed  wood,  "...  infantry, 
.  .  .  f or  France,  .  .  ."  and  would  make  a 
wooden  sword  of  it.  One  might  have  said  that 
these  dead  men  were  fleeing  from  their  forgotten 
tombs,  and  the  endless  file  of  the  other  dead  men 
watched  them  set  forth,  their  crosses  so  close  to- 
gether that  they  seemed  to  be  shaking  hands  with 
,one  another. 

In  the  thick  undergrowth  the  eglantines  all  in 
flower  were  holding  up  their  white  posies. 
Demachy  plucked  them  as  he  went.  It  was  com- 
ing up  to  the  tileworks.  Upon  the  dismantled 
roof  the  red-cross  flag  was  no  longer  flying:  it  was 
a  kind  of  grey,  torn  rag  that  hung  down  the  whole 
length  of  the  flagstaff.  The  brick  wall,  pierced 
with  loopholes  in  September,  had  been  smashed 
in  by  shells,  the  tower  broken  down,  the  front 
riddled,  and  at  the  present  moment  you  could  go 


170  Wooden  Crosses 

into  the  field  hospital  through  ten  different 
breaches.  And  yet  that  is  where  the  wounded 
had  been  looked  after  ever  since  the  water  had 
overwhelmed  the  cellars.  And  so  no  one  dared  to 
light  up  at  night  in  that  farm,  now  marked  down 
as  a  target,  they  were  dressed  in  the  darkness,  by 
touch,  the  fingers  feeling  for  the  wounds. 

Those  that  were  too  badly  hurt  to  be  saved  had 
their  bed  made  by  the  door:  the  holes  were  dug, 
they  had  only  to  be  taken  outside.  The  cemetery 
also  had  learned  to  make  war ;  it  no  longer  allowed 
its  dead  to  go  as  they  pleased,  it  mustered  them  in 
company  in  front  of  the  tile-works.  You  had  to 
stoop  down,  lift  up  a  wreath  of  ivy,  a  red,  white, 
and  blue  cockade  made  of  three  rags  in  order  to 
discover  a  regimental  number  and  a  name.  A 
comrade*s  knife  had  indeed  engraved  these  things 
on  a  belt-buckle,  but  the  rust  soon  ate  them  away, 
as  if  death  had  meant  to  kill  their  very  memory. 

Demachy  stopped  at  the  first  of  the  tombs. 
Corpses  had  been  brought  along  since  the  previ- 
ous day  and  were  awaiting  their  grave,  lying  be- 
tween the  crosses.  One  was  wrapped  up  in  a  piece 
of  canvas,  a  stiff  shroud  that  the  blood  made 
harder  still.  The  others  had  remained  as  they  had 
fallen,  their  coats  foul  with  earth,  their  trousers 
thick  with  mud,  and  with  nothing  to  cover  their 
swollen  or  waxen  faces,  their  poor  purply  faces, 
that  you  would  have  said  might  have  been  smeared 
with  lees  of  wine.  The  head  of  a  sergeant,  how- 
ever, was  veiled.    It  had  been  thrust  into  a  satchel, 


In  the  Cafe  de  la  Marine       171 

as  though  into  a  monk's  cowl,  and  you  could  guess 
at  the  dreadful  wound  under  this  winding-sheet 
clotted  with  blood.  He  wore  a  wedding-ring  on 
his  finger.  The  arm  of  a  little  chasseur  was 
stretched  out,  and  seemed  to  lie  across  the  path 
barring  it,  the  nails  driven  into  the  soft  earth. 
Had  they  dragged  themselves  up  out  of  the 
Ltrenches  only  to  come  there  to  die  ? 

Among  the  white  and  black  crosses,  Demachy 
looked  for  that  belonging  to  Nourry,  who  had  been 
killed  at  the  Springs  Wood  eight  days  earlier. 
Little  Belin  had  made  the  cross  with  a  great  board 
out  of  a  box,  split  in  two,  and  Gilbert  recognized 
it  from  the  back,  reading  on  its  ' '  Champag  .  .  .  " 
At  its  foot  someone  had  stuck  in  a  shell-case,  in 
which  a  bouquet  of  lily-of-the-valley  was  growing 
yellow  and  faded.  Demachy  threw  it  away  to 
put  his  eglantine  in  its  place. 

With  closed  eyes,  he  thought  of  Nourry  on  his 
last  day.  Wounded  in  the  stomach,  he  had 
groaned  in  the  dug-out  all  night,  for  the  stretcher- 
bearers  never  came  up,  and  every  now  and  then 
turning  his  thin  head  with  its  pinched-up  nose  to 
us,  he  would  murmur : 

"Eh,  my  poor  lads,  I'm  keeping  you  from 
sleeping." 

He  was  dead  at  daybreak.  The  nightly  fusil- 
lade had  fallen  to  silence,  the  guns  were  not  yet 
begun  to  fire.  A  chaffinch  was  singing  in  the  wood. 
And  in  this  place  we  had  the  better  felt  and  under- 
stood that  death. 


172  Wooden  Crosses 

To  give  him  a  proper  tomb,  the  squad  had  de- 
termined to  take  him  to  the  rear.  Four  men  had 
gone  for  rations  instead  of  two,  carrying  turn  about 
the  long  body  rolled  up  in  its  brown  blanket ;  and 
Demachy  had  followed  them,  the  cross  of  white 
wood  under  one  arm,  and  holding  in  his  other  hand 
bottles  for  their  food. 

Since  Nourry's  death  two  letters  had  come  for 
him.  They  might  have  been  returned  with  the 
brutal  announcement  of  death  in  the  comer:  "The 
addressee  cannot  be  found."  Demachy  had 
thought  it  better  to  take  them.  He  took  them 
out  of  his  cartridge-pouch,  tore  them  up  without 
opening  them,  and  over  this  regulation  soldier's 
tomb,  square  as  a  barrack-bed,  he  scattered  the 
petals  of  the  letters,  so  that  the  dead  man  might 
at  least  sleep  under  words  from  his  own  folk. 

This  comrade  of  his  was  dearer  to  him  now  that 
he  was  no  more.  He  regretted  that  he  had  not 
liked  him  better,  that  tall  boy,  shy  and  gentle; 
that  he  had  not  been  nicer  to  him.  He  carried 
in  the  same  way  within  him  the  names  of  several 
comrades  left  behind  in  the  little  cemeteries  of 
Champagne  or  the  Aisne,  or  even  between  the  lines 
upon  no  man's  land ;  and  he  used  to  talk  to  them, 
listen  to  them  complaining,  those  poor  fellows 
whom,  when  they  were  alive,  he  had  not  always 
liked,  because  they  were  coarse  at  times,  and 
^msy  and  heavy  of  mind  and  body.  He  forgot 
none  of  them,  and  loved  to  brood  over  their  mem- 
ory, when  there  was  already  no  more  left  of  them 


In  the  Cafe  de  la  Marine       173 

but  a  meaningless  name  in  the  short  memories 
vof  their  pals  in  the  squad. 

Thus  staying  by  a  tomb,  he  found  once  more, 
intact,  his  soul  of  old  times,  his  soul  of  the  days 
before  the  war,  grieving  and  passionate,  which 
now  was  asleep,  worn  out  by  fatigue,  the  life  of 
misery,  daily  appetites,  the  contact  and  rubbing 
up  against  others.  His  soul  would  waken  thus, 
Ljji  hours  of  solitude — the  time  of  suffering. 

** Hullo!  old  man,"  called  a  stretcher-bearer 
who  saw  him  moving  away.  **  Don't  loll  about 
in  this  country.  They're  nasty  this  afternoon, 
they  keep  on  heaving  the  big  stuff  over." 

He  started  again,  without  hurrying,  following 
the  course  of  the  river,  in  no  haste  to  arrive.  He 
would  have  liked  to  remain  alone  this  evening. 

The  first  houses,  whose  gardens,  lying  fallow, 
were  a  continuation  of  the  fields,  were  almost 
habitable,  merely  just  had  the  comers,  so  to  speak 
broken  off  by  the  210-millimetre  guns,  their  red 
tiles  having  taken  flight  before  the  shells  like 
broods  of  red  pigeons.  But  when  you  got  to  the 
top  of  the  ascent  it  was  simple  massacre. 

You  saw  the  church  first  of  all,  a  ruined  spire 
without  a  roof,  and  a  high  dismantled  wall,  whose 
ogive  windows  opened  on  to  the  sky.  The  little 
door  of  the  priest's  dwelling-house,  still  upright, 
guarded  those  ruins,  and  just  over  the  bell  a  little 
blue  plate  gave  its  innocent  advice:  **Tirez  fort" 
—  'Pull  hard." 


174  Wooden  Crosses 

However  artillery  may  rage  against  a  country- 
side, there  will  always  be  something  left:  a  piece 
of  a  wall  with  its  flowered  paper,  and  on  it ;  a  couple 
of  photographs  in  black  frames;  the  newly  painted 
door  of  a  room,  looking  coquettish  in  the  midst  of 
broken  and  pounded  rubble;  a  marble  chimney- 
piece  that  has  remained  up  above,  balanced  in 
position,  on  three  slabs  of  parquet. 

From  these  ruined  remains  Demachy  imagined 
the  country  in  its  lifetime.  It  was  neither  a  vil- 
lage nor  a  country  town,  a  little  pleasure-place 
rather,  a  peaceful  countrified  retreat  to  which  the 
shopkeepers  from  the  city  would  retire  on  reach- 
ing their  sixty  years,  to  graft  their  roses  and  go 
a-fishing.  No  farms — villas,  which  you  could 
recognize  in  spite  of  everything  by  the  three  free- 
stone steps  of  an  outside  stair,  by  a  fragment  of 
pink  fagade,  whose  paint  had  been  scratched  by 
flying  splinters. 

He  followed,  tripping  and  stumbling  along,  the 
course  of  the  main  street  bordered  by  devastated 
shops  and  remains  of  houses.  Under  the  ruins, 
rising  up  from  the  stairs  leading  to  the  cellars,  there 
could  be  heard  voices,  laughter,  the  neighing  of  a 
horse,  the  thin  scraping  of  a  violin. 

Behind  the  fragments  of  wall,  crouching  cooks 
were  trying  to  make  a  fire  without  smoke,  and 
merely  turned  their  heads,  as  though  from  curio- 
sity, when  a  shell  announced  itself  hurtling  through 
the  air.  Something  can  very  well  be  risked  when 
one  means  to  have  a  fry. 


In  the  Cafe  de  la  Marine       175 

The  Cafe  de  la  Marine?"  Demachy  called  out 
to  them. 

"Lower,  to  the  left." 

He  started  off  again,  making  haste  a  little,  for  a 
big  "Jack  Johnson"  had  just  fallen  quite  close, 
wrenching  up  a  great  spout  of  bits  of  stone  and 
plaster  and  smoke.  He  had  hoped  to  find  the 
sign  still  extant  on  a  piece  of  the  facade,  but  found 
the  stone  bridge,  which  the  Boches  were  continu- 
ally feeling  for,  there  remained  only  a  tumbled 
mass  of  stones  and  beams  smashed  and  pounded 
up  about  a  big  red  roof  that  the  shells  had  not  seen. 
All  the  same,  through  the  holes  of  the  ventilators 
a  noise  of  a  loud  talk  could  be  heard.  He  stooped 
down  and  called  a  query : 

"The  Cafe  de  la  Marine?" 

"Beside,    .    .    .   there's  a  cage  at  the  door." 

With  a  quick  glance  all  round,  he  searched,  but 
saw  nothing  at  all.  Shrapnel  having  exploded  just 
above  the  church — two  coppery  bursts — he  got 
irritated.  "There  isn't  any  cage,  in  Heaven's 
name!" 

The  splinters  passed,  swearing  viciously,  and 
rebounded  from  the  tiles  like  big  hailstones.  He 
drew  himself  up  again,  and  immediately  he  cocked 
his  ears. 

"Ah!  they  are  there.   ..." 

He  had  just  recognized  Sulphart's  voice,  who 
must  be  explaining  something  in  a  friendly  fashion 
to  Lemoine. 

"What ! "  he  was  shouting,  "but  you  poor  yokel, 


17^  Wooden  Crosses 

you  were  going  on  four  paws  when  I  was  already 
in  patent  leathers." 

Guided  by  these  outcries,  Demachy  looked  for 
the  stair  and  precipitated  himself  down  it.  In 
fact,  there  was  a  big  aviary  placed  in  the  entrance, 
and  a  thin,  ruffle-feathered  raven  was  seen  in  one 
comer,  his  long  beak  buried  in  his  feathers,  observ- 
ing the  destruction  and  disaster  with  a  round 
open  eye. 

It  was  the  bird  that  was  the  theme  of  the  argu- 
ment down  in  the  cellar  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Marine, 
where  our  section  was  waiting  its  relief,  having 
only  put  in  three  days  in  the  front  line. 

"You  ask  Demachy,"  shouted  Sulphart,  catch- 
ing sight  of  his  friend,  whose  eyes  were  feeling  their 
way  in  the  darkness  of  the  subterranean  chamber. 
**  Just  you  ask  him  if  ravens  don't  live  for  a  good 
hundred  years." 

"I've  taken  more  ravens  from  the  nest  than 
you've  ever  seen,"  replied  Lemoine  calmly,  seated 
on  a  half -barrel  cut  down  to  a  tub.  "You  don't 
know  what  you're  talking  about;  there's  nothing 
as  stupid  as  a  raven." 

"That  doesn't  prevent  it  living  to  be  old;  and 
that  fellow,  he  has  seen  more  wars  than  you — the 
Revolution  maybe,  and  1870  .    .    ." 

Stretched  out  in  a  comer  on  a  hammock  made 
of  wire-netting,  Vieuble  protested. 

"Ah,  don't  you  keep  always  dishing  up  your 
1870.  You're  talking  about  a  war  of  walnuts. 
They  used  to  fight  one  day  a  month,  and  thought 


In  the  Cafe  de  la  Marine       i77 

they  had  done  a  lot.  And  the  boys  that  were 
knocking  round  Panama  before  they  went  out 
for  that  Httle  turn  up  at  Buzenval,  don't  you  think 
they  were  in  luck?  It  does  amuse  me,  it  does, 
wars  like  that!" 

"I'm  not  talking  about  1870,"  insisted  Sulphart, 
always  obstinate.     "I'm  talking  about  the  raven. " 

*'Hou!  .    .    .  Hououu!  .    .    .     Shut  your  jaw!" 

Everybody  started  to  shout,  to  make  him  be 
quiet.  Somebody  threw  a  big  lump  of  bread  at 
him. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  vexation. 
"I'm  going  to  give  it  to  him,  anyway,  to  peck  at." 

And  having  taken  a  piece  of  tinned  beef,  a  bit  of 
cheese,  and  the  chunk  of  bread  that  had  been  flung 
at  him,  he  took  up  his  raven's  dinner,  much  more 
than  the  bird  wanted. 

Demachy  suddenly  felt  himself  happy.  Sul- 
phart had  kept  a  good  place  for  him  on  a  mattress, 
and  he  would  be  able  to  read,  to  drowse,  lazily 
outstretched  at  full  length,  as  on  a  divan. 

The  big  cellar  looked  out  on  the  river  through 
two  long  ventholes  with  bars  in  front  of  them.  In 
the  morning  there  came  in  at  daybreak  a  freezing 
mist  that  smelt  of  the  water.  You  could  hardly 
see  within  it,  and  in  order  to  write,  the  men  had 
lighted  a  candle  fixed  with  three  drops  of  its  own 
tallow  on  to  the  comer  of  a  mahogany  round  table. 
There  was  something  of  everything  in  this  cellar: 
chairs,  beds,  tables,  bottle-racks  that  served  us  as 
cupboards,  mattresses,  and  even  a  rocking-chair, 


178  Wooden  Crosses 

that  Bouffioux  had  his  eye  on  to  Hght  his  fire. 
Never  since  they  had  been  in  the  war  had  the  boys 
of  the  company  slept  so  cosily.  They  revelled  in 
their  good  luck  all  day  long,  wallowing  in  their 
comers,  marking  the  bedding  with  their  dirty 
boots,  and  their  heads  luxuriously  lying  on  down 
pillows. 

In  the  lower  cellar  there  was  a  concert  going  on. 
A  corporal  was  playing  the  ocarina,  and  squatting 
all  round  him,  the  boys  were  taking  up  each  song 
at  the  chorus,  with  sentimental  voices.  Perched 
up  on  an  Empire  writing-table,  with  his  legs  swing- 
ing down,  Father  Hamel  was  keeping  time  to  the 
rhythm  by  kicking  his  heels  against  the  rosewood 
panelling. 

Men  paid  each  other  calls  from  one  cellar  to  an- 
other. All  were  well  supplied  with  furniture. 
There  must  have  been  nothing  left  in  the  houses, 
not  even  under  the  masses  of  stones:  little  by 
little  everything  had  been  carried  off.  What  had 
not  been  taken  down  into  the  cellars  had  been 
lugged  off  into  the  wood,  where  men  went  down 
into  the  trenches.  Every  evening  regular  fatigue 
parties  would  arrive,  shadowy  bands,  and  go  back 
laden  with  tables,  armchairs,  mattresses.  One 
piece  of  furniture  after  another,  the  village  was 
flitted,  and  you  could  come  upon  strange  dug-outs 
in  the  Springs  Wood  with  a  door  that  had  once 
belonged  to  a  Renaissance  cupboard,  with  dread- 
ful little  Bretons,  excellently  carved,  playing  on 
the  bagpipe.     In  our  own  particular  cubby-hole  we 


In  the  Cafe  de  la  Marine       179 

had  found  a  wicker  armchair,  and  a  red  eiderdown - 
quilt.  Sous-Lieutenant  Berthier  had  possession 
of  a  sofa  and  a  tall  glass  cracked  down  the  middle, 
on  which  a  sanguine  warrior  had  scratched, 
''Three  months  and  then  out.'* 

On  the  side  of  the  road  there  was  even  a  piano, 
which  the  men  carrying,  growing  disheartened,  had 
left  derelict  half-way  to  the  wood;  and  at  night, 
while  waiting  for  the  ration  carts  to  come  up,  the 
cooks  used  very  softly  to  play  Httle  tunes  on  it 
with  one  finger. 

The  front  lines,  in  this  woodland  section,  were 
not  at  all  dreadful.  A  few  casual  shells  from  time 
to  time,  at  long  intervals — that  was  how  Nourry 
had  been  killed —  a  bullet  to  be  risked  when  you 
went  to  look  on  the  hedge  between  two  trenches ; 
that  was  all.  Men  went  freely  walking  about 
the  wood,  and  the  cooks  made  their  stews  there,  a 
hundred  metres  to  the  rear,  sufficiently  well  hidden 
in  the  undergrowth.  For  the  first  time  since  we 
had  been  in  the  trenches  we  had  eaten  hot  food  and 
drunk  coffee  that  smoked  in  the  cups. 

The  Germans  at  the  outset  had  fired  torpedoes, 
huge  *  *  stove-pipes  "  that  broke  and  smashed  every- 
thing to  atoms.  Thereupon  we  had  sent  for  a 
section  of  bomb-throwers  to  give  them  due  and 
proper  answer.  They  had  dug  at  the  earth  for 
nearly  a  month,  had  carted  logs  night  and  day, 
and  made  a  shelter  with  props  and  stays  so  stout 
that  it  feared  nothing.  Then  they  had  brought 
their  gun  along. 


i8o  Wooden  Crosses 

It  was  a  noble  museum  specimen,  a  kind  of  very 
tiny  mortar  in  bronze  that  carried,  engraved  on  its 
squat  toad's  belly,  the  date  and  place  of  its  origin : 
**i848.  Repuhlique  franqaise,  Toulouse y  It  was 
loaded  by  strict  guesswork :  one  gramme  of  powder 
per  metre.  We  were  a  hundred  and  eighty  metres 
from  the  Boches,  as  near  as  might  be;  so  in  went 
four  spoonfuls  of  powder,  and  to  make  good 
measure  the  bombardier-sergeant  used  to  add  a 
pinch  extra.  That  made  a  simply  terrific  noise, 
and  the  mortar  leaped  with  fright  every  time  it 
fired  off.  We  could  see  the  projectile  describe  a 
huge  parabola  in  the  air,  turning  over  and  over, 
and  it  would  fall  to  earth  wherever  it  listed  in  the 
wood,  cheered  by  the  Boches,  who,  I  verily  be- 
lieve, cried  out  "Bravo!"  Now  and  then  it  ex- 
ploded. After  a  brief  sojourn,  the  bombardiers 
had  got  their  hands  on  another  gun — a  real  one 
this  time — and  had  gone  off  to  try  it  elsewhere, 
leaving  us,  along  with  their  superfine  dug-out,  a 
bizarre  and  innocuous  weapon,  a  sort  of  giant 
catapult  or  ballista  constructed  with  pneumatic 
tyres  for  elastic  and  wooden  levers.  With  this 
machine  you  could  project  hand-grenades:  the 
first  man  who  tried  it  met  his  death  for  his 
pains. 

Thereafter,  the  various  sections  of  the  line 
employed  it  to  hurl  upon  the  Boches  the  most  un- 
thought-of  missiles:  old  boots,  empty  bottles, 
trench-boots  with  heavy  wooden  soles,  and,  gener- 
ally, any  kind  or  sort  of  object  that  might  be  lying 


In  the  Cafe  de  la  Marine       i8i 

about,    so   long   as  it   was   of   satisfactory   and 
sufficient  weight. 

Sulphart  was  admirably  skilled — had  a  pretty 
knack  at  this  particular  game.  He  had  spent  his 
three  days  in  bombarding  the  advanced  sap  of  the 
Boches,  for  they  were  about  forty  metres  away 
from  our  lines.  He  had  thrown  everything  he 
possibly  could:  old  socks  stuffed  out  with  small 
stones,  tins  of  bully-beef,  bricks,  the  bases  of 
shells.  Last  night,  just  before  we  were  leaving, 
he  had  let  them  have  the  farewell  shot — a  big 
mustard- jar  filled  with  earth,  which  must  have 
landed  full  and  square  in  the  trench,  for  we  could 
hear  shouting.  We  had  cheered  Sulphart,  hooted 
the  Boches,  and  from  out  of  their  sap  one  of  them 
— possibly  the  wounded  one — had  replied  in  bad 
French,  calling  us  unpleasant  names,  cows,  and 
cuckolds. 

Ever  after  Sulphart  displayed  an  uppish  de- 
light. He  had  brayed  on  through  the  whole  of 
the  relief,  recounted  his  brilliant  feat  of  arms  to 
the  whole  of  the  regiment,  nagged  at  the  officers, 
stampeded  the  cooks  at  the  exit  to  the  trenches, 
his  radiant  face  simply  exuding  pride. 

"He  got  it  full  in  the  mug,  I'm  telling  you:  I'm 
dead  cocksure  about  it.  The  proof  is  he  called  me 
cuckold,  and  said  it  in  French,  too.  .  .  He 
must  have  been  an  officer." 

He  had  run  into  every  single  cellar  to  tell  his 
story,  and  for  a  cup  of  wine  he  gave  in  public  a  de- 
tailed and  cunningly  heightened  and  embellished 


1 82  Wooden  Crosses 

narration.  At  the  entry  of  the  cellar  where  he 
was  patiently  stuffing  his  voracious  bird,  he  was 
heard  recounting  his  tale  for  the  hundredth  time 
to  gapers  in  blue,  who  were  drinking  it  all  in  and 
admiring. 

"Aye,  my  lad,"  he  was  shouting,  "the  General 
took  it  full  in  the  mug,  and  he  even  called  me 
cuckold  in  French." 

And  as,  in  spite  of  everything,  he  knew  how  to 
give  due  homage  to  his  enemies,  he  added,  with  a 
tone  of  respect : 

"There's  no  doubt  about  it,  they  are  an  edu- 
cated lot,  those  blighters,  anyhow." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MOUNT  CALVARY 

From  the  Springs  Wood  you  could  see  it  through 
the  branches,  on  which  there  were  now  perched 
like  swarming  green  bees  the  first  buds  of  the  year. 
Harrowed  by  shells,  disembowelled  by  the  heavy 
blows  of  torpedoes,  worn,  tragical,  it  was  a  tall 
chalky  mound,  bristling  with  a  few  stakes  that  had 
once  been  trees.  On  the  staff  maps  it  was  certain 
to  have  a  name  of  its  own.  The  soldiers  had 
called  it  Mount  Calvary. 

It  was  the  hell  of  the  sector.  When  the  regi- 
ment was  going  up  to  the  line,  men  used  to  ask 
each  other  anxiously:  ''Who  is  it  taking  over  at 
Calvary  this  time?  .  .  ."  And  when  they  had 
found  out,  the  victims  groused : 

** Always  the  same!  .  .  .  One  thing  is  certain, 
the  Captain  doesn't  worry  about  it — ^you  won't 
often  see  him  up  above  there.   .    .    . " 

Bombarded  without  respite,  the  Calvary  was 
always  smoking  like  a  factory.  They  could  see 
the  torpedoes  shooting  up  from  the  wood  where 
the  Boches  were,  and  falling  heavily  on  that  dead 
earth  whence  they  could  wrench  nothing  but 
gobbets  of  men  and  bits  of  stones.     By  night  it 

183 


1 84  Wooden  Crosses 

was  there  that  the  fireworks  went  off:  red  globes, 
white  stars,  floating  green  caterpillars,  a  vision 
splendid  of  nights  of  war.  Lightning  bursts  of 
explosions  added  their  uproar  to  the  tumult.  And 
during  four  whole  days  two  sections  would  stay- 
there  on  the  watch  for  the  unknown  over  a  ravaged 
field  strewn  with  blue  coats  and  grey  backs. 

From  a  distance,  when  they  looked  at  the  yellow 
and  green  clouds  from  the  explosions,  that  never 
cleared  away,  when  they  saw  the  thick  plume 
from  the  torpedoes,  when  they  heard  that  inces- 
sant raging  storm,  men  said  to  one  another : 

"It's  not  possible.  Nobody  can  ever  hold  on 
there.  .  .  .  There  can't  be  a  single  one  to  come 
back." 

They  held  on  there  all  the  same,  and  neverthe- 
less, there  were  some  who  came  back. 

Our  turn  had  come  to  go  up  there.  It  was  not 
precisely  a  trench  that  led  up  to  Calvary,  but  a  kind 
of  track  chopped  out  of  the  chalk,  a  mule-path 
lined  with  narrow  dug-outs,  oozing  and  chilly. 
All  along  it  there  was  a  heartrending  medley  of 
equipment — bottles,  cartridges,  clothes,  tools — a 
whole  graveyard  of  inanimate  things.  And  at  long 
intervals,  wooden  crosses:  "Brunet,  148th  In- 
fantry Regiment.  .  .  ."  ''Cachin,  74th  In- 
fantry. ..."  *' Here  IS  a  German  soldier.  .  .  ." 
Barely  covered  with  a  layer  of  marl,  you  could  see 
quite  plainly  the  bloated  swelling  of  the  bodies. 
There  were  more  than  a  dozen  stations  on  this 
Way  of  the  Cross. 


Mount  Calvary  185 

The  relief  took  place  more  quickly  than  usual 
this  evening.  We  went  forward  with  humped 
backs  and  uneasy,  restless  ears.  We  pushed  one 
another  on.  As  we  made  out,  in  the  glare  of  the 
rockets,  the  short  stumps  of  the  trees,  sous- 
Lieutenant  Berthier,  who  was  guiding  us,  sent  the 
word  along : 

"We  are  just  getting  there.     Silence!'* 

Unnecessary  advice.  Not  a  grumble,  not  a 
clink  of  metal,  not  a  murmur.  Lemoine,  who 
never  believed  there  was  any  danger,  for  all  that 
held  his  bayonet  because  it  was  rattHng.  The 
same  grave  feelings  dominated  all  of  us.  Maroux 
alone  was  satisfied.  He  had  pretended  that  it  was 
a  lucky  place,  that  up  there  nobody  would  come 
to  see  us,  that  we  would  be  left  in  peace.  But 
like  the  others,  he  still  went  along  with  lowered 
head,  keeping  a  hand  on  his  mess- tin  that  was 
swinging  and  ringing. 

"Get  down!" 

Two  shells  whistled  over  and  came  and  burst 
twenty  paces  off,  a  red  lightning  that  dazzles  us. 
All  of  us  were  huddled  up,  one  pressing  close  upon 
the  others.     The  fragments  thrashed  at  the  chalk. 

"Pass  the  word  to  go  on.   .    .    . " 

In  the  narrow  trench  dug  in  on  the  other  slope 
of  the  hill,  the  men  of  the  regiment  that  was  being 
reUeved  were  waiting  for  us,  impatient,  their  packs 
already  on  their  shoulders.  In  lowest  tones,  with 
staccato  phrases,  the  sergeants  handed  on  their 
orders. 


1 86  Wooden  Crosses 

*  *  Their  trench  is  in  the  fringe  of  the  wood.  .  .  . 
A  trifle  more  than  a  hundred  metres.  Don't  fire 
farther  to  the  left  than  the  birches,  that's  a  little 
post  of  our  own." 

Briefly  the  comrades  wished  us  good-luck  as  they 
picked  up  their  kit. 

''Look  out  for  the  torpedoes,  especially  in  the 
evening  at  soup-time.  If  you  possibly  can,  bring 
in  the  lad  lying  out  in  the  field  there,  just  in  front 
of  the  barbed-wire.  It's  one  of  our  boys  who  got 
knocked  over  the  other  night.  You'll  bury  him 
will  you?     Questel,  his  name  is.   .    .    ." 

Speedily  they  set  off,  cramming  the  narrow 
*  gallery  through  which  the  whole  trench  poured 
itself.  Their  subdued  murmur  moved  away  and 
finally  was  silent.     Lucky  fellows !   .    .    . 

They  had  left  nothing  on  Calvary :  a  few  tins  of 
bully-beef,  some  packets  of  cartridges,  rolls  of 
bread  not  touched,  a  pal  out  in  the  plain.  .  .  . 
They  had  gone. 

While  the  first  sentries,  leaning  their  elbows  on 
the  parapet,  took  up  the  watch,  our  section  ebbed 
back  on  to  the  other  slope  of  the  hill  in  order  to 
instal  themselves. 

A  regiment  of  miners — dour  and  violent  lads 
from  the  North — had  dug  at  that  point  a  kind  of 
grotto,  whose  entrance  gave  on  to  our  lines  and  its 
loopholes  on  to  the  Boches'  wood.  It  comprised  a 
fairly  lofty  gallery,  strongly  propped  up,  flanked 
right  and  left  with  narrow  retreats,  supplied  with 
old   straw   and   newspapers.     The   first   arrivals 


Mount  Calvary  187 

flung  themselves  into  them,  chattering  noisily, 
driving  off  the  others  with  fists  and  feet ;  and  in  the 
half-light  of  a  feebly  flickering  candle  there  was  a 
sharp  scrimmage,  a  furious  uproar  of  cries  and 
oaths.  Berthier,  before  any  mischief  was  done, 
re-established  order. 

"Come,  now,  no  row,  no  arguing;  that  doesn't 
do  the  least  bit  of  good !  .  .  .  Everybody  will 
have  room." 

With  his  electric  lamp  he  searched  into  the 
darkest  comers,  and  quietly  and  sedately  be- 
stowed his  men.  Behind  him  the  soldiers  waited, 
quite  well  behaved,  like  children  being  arranged  by 
the  master,  and  nobody  shouted  any  more,  so  as 
not  to  give  him  trouble.  They  each  accepted  the 
comer  assigned  to  him  and  took  up  his  lodging 
in  it. 

Breval,  as  he  unfolded  his  blanket,  kept  making 
finds  in  the  straw.  "A  newspaper  from  my  old 
home!"  he  cried  out  in  delight.  'Tm  going  to 
read  that  in  bed,  like  in  the  dear  old  days.    .    .    .  " 

There  were  four  of  us  in  our  particular  garret, 
very  close-packed,  our  belts  unfastened  and  our 
puttees  imdone.  Broucke  had  even  taken  off  his 
boots  and  was  snoring  already,  while  little  Belin 
was  concocting  out  of  a  bit  of  barbed-wire  a  most 
ingenious  candle-holder,  whose  light  could  not  be 
seen  from  outside. 

"  Ah !  we're  well  off  here, "  sighed  Breval,  stretch- 
ing himself,  .  .  .  "so  long  as  the  Boches  leave 
us  alone  in  peace.   .    .    . " 


1 88  Wooden  Crosses 

**At  bottom,  it's  just  what  I  had  always  said," 
said  Maroux,  who  was  lying  on  the  other  side  of  the 
gallery.  "From  a  distance,  with  the  fellows  that 
keep  coming  down,  you  get  ideas  into  your  head; 
and  once  you're  in  it,  it's  no  worse  than  anywhere 
else." 

And  yet  at  every  instant  a  dull  thick  thud 
shook  the  hill,  and  the  explosion  came  in  with 
a  gust  into  our  grotto,  whose  candles  shivered. 
Sometimes  it  fell  on  the  other  slope  of  Calvary, 
in  front  of  the  entrance  to  our  sap,  and  we 
could  see  its  lightning  glare  on  the  canvas. 

"Too  long  range,"  Lemoine  would  say,  reas- 
sured by  the  four  metres  of  earth  that  we  had  on 
top  of  our  heads. 

Broucke  snored  louder  than  usual,  to  keep  from 
hearing  the  shells;  and  Breval  read  his  paper,  far, 
far  away  from  the  war. 

"Set  of  disgusting  pigs!"  he  growled.  .  .  . 
*  *  More  women  arrested  in  the  English  camp.  And 
no  tarts  either,  you  may  be  sure  of  that — married 
women.  ...  I've  been  told  when  they  catch 
them  like  that  they  post  up  their  names  at  the 
Mayor's.  Talk  about  a  blow  for  the  husband 
when  he'll  get  to  know  about  that!   .    .    . " 

He  read  some  lines  more,  then  angrily  crumpled 
up  his  paper,  flung  it  away  from  him,  and  turned 
his  face  to  the  wall  of  damp  chalk,  saying  to  me: 
' '  You'll  blow  out  the  candle. ' ' 

With  big,  muffled,  obstinate  blows,  the  artillery 
was  raging  furiously  against  Calvary,  at  the  very 


Mount  Calvary  189 

summit  of  Calvary,  where  the  three  crosses  would 
have  been  set  up.  Between  the  explosions  there 
was  nothing  at  all  to  be  heard  except  now  and  then 
a  man's  foot  stumbling  over  the  pebbles,  or  strag- 
gling shots,  the  foolishness  of  some  sentry. 

By  the  dancing  light  of  the  candle  that  was  at 
the  point  of  death,  I  looked  at  the  squat  beams 
on  which  our  equipments  and  water-cans  were 
hanging.  Swollen  satchels  covered  the  wall,  with 
bayonets  for  pegs.  Under  our  heads  our  packs, 
in  a  comer  our  rifles — and  we  carry  all  that,  for 
whole  nights,  whole  days,  whole  long  leagues. 
.  .  .  We  carry  our  houses,  we  carry  our  kitch- 
ens, and  even  our  very  shrouds — the  brown 
blanket  in  which,  closely  wrapped  up,  I  am  now 
\about  to  fall  asleep. 


Slowly,  slowly,  the  night  seemed  to  melt  away. 
You  might  have  said  the  last  star  was  hastening 
to  go  home. 

In  the  light  mist  of  daybreak,  things  were  com- 
ing back  from  their  journey  into  the  black  realms 
and  primly  taking  their  accustomed  places:  the 
forked  tree  in  front  of  the  trench,  the  burned  stack 
over  against  the  Brun  wire.  It  was  Broucke  who 
was  the  first  to  catch  sight  of  the  dead. 

"There  are  a  rare  lot  of  them,"  said  he. 
"That's  another  wood  that's  going  to  come  a  bit 
dear.   ..." 

Gilbert  tried  to  discover  the  one  who  had  fallen 


I90  Wooden  Crosses 

the  other  night,  the  one  his  comrades  had  asked 
us  to  bury.  Daybreak  at  last  discovered  him. 
He  had  remained  about  twenty  metres  from  the 
barbed  wire,  already  flattened  and  stale,  Hke  the 
others.  What  was  the  good  of  risking  getting 
killed  to  drag  that  corpse  nearer  the  trench?  A 
place  here  or  a  hole  there.  .  .  .  They  had  his 
papers,  that  was  enough.  His  tomb?  Some- 
where, anywhere,  on  the  front.    .    .    . 

With  the  day  the  artillery  woke  up.  First  of  all 
thundered  a  salvo  of  shrapnel,  crowning  Calvary 
with  a  green  halo  speedily  dissipated.  Then  it 
was  the  turn  of  the  heavy  guns. 

The  first  ones  that  whistled  over  hurled  us  to 
earth  at  the  bottom  of  the  trench.  There  was  a 
rending  crash,  and  a  great  spout  of  broken  stone 
fell  back  on  us  like  heavy  hail.  Breval  gave  a 
little  cry,  touched  on  the  nape  by  a  spent  splinter 
or  a  pebble.  Only  the  skin  was  torn,  but  he  was 
bleeding. 

"No  luck,"  said  Lemoine  to  him  as  he  dressed 
him  with  a  little  iodine.  ...  "If  that  had  just 
managed  to  break  an  arm  for  you,  eh  ? " 

"It's  not  me  that'll  ever  have  that  kind  of 
luck,"  regretted  the  corporal. 

So  the  day  passed,  while  we  were  bowed  under 
the  shells,  scattering  before  the  torpedoes. 

Towards  eleven  o'clock,  it  all  doubled  in  fury, 
and  the  party  going  for  the  soup  hesitated  a  full 
minute  before  going  off,  more  sheltered  in  the  sap 
than   in    the   trench,    everywhere   breached   and 


Mount  Calvary  191 

broken.  When  they  came  back,  half  the  wine  was 
overturned  and  spilled,  the  macaroni  full  of  earth, 
and  Sulphart  nearly  choked  insulting  Lemoine, 
who  was  "not  even  up  to  carrying  a  bottle." 

The  stew  eaten,  we  began  to  play  cards  and 
wait  for  night.  Broucke  had  begun  to  snore; 
lying  near  him,  Gilbert  was  trying  to  dream. 

Suddenly  he  sat  up  and  said  to  us,  his  voice  dry 
and  hard : 

"They're  digging  underneath." 

Everyone  turned  about,  letting  the  cards  drop. 

"Are  you  sure?" 

He  nodded  his  head  for  yes.  Brutally  I  shook 
Broucke,  who  was  still  snoring,  and  Maroux, 
Breval,  Sulphart  lay  down  in  the  gallery,  their  ears 
clapped  to  the  ground.  The  rest  of  us  looked 
at  them,  dumb,  our  hearts  seemingly  gripped  in 
a  vice.  We  had  understood  completely  ...  a 
mine.  Anxiously  we  listened,  raging  at  the  shells 
that  shook  the  hill  with  their  battering-ram. 
Breval  was  the  first  to  get  up  again. 

"There  is  no  possibility  of  a  mistake,"  said  he 
in  a  half -whisper,  "they  are  digging." 

"There's  only  one  of  them  at  work,  you  can  hear 
quite  clearly,"  said  Maroux,  giving  it  precision. 
"They  are  not  far  off." 

We  were  all  clustering  together,  motionless,  lying 
on  the  hard  earth.  Someone  had  gone  to  fetch 
Sergeant  Ricordeau.  He  arrived,  listened  for  a 
moment  and  said : 

"Yes.   .    .    .     We  must  tell  the  lieutenant.' 


192  Wooden  Crosses 

Each  one  in  his  turn  lay  down  to  listen,  and  rose 
up  a  trifle  gloomier.  In  the  trench  the  news  had 
already  spread  like  wildfire,  and  between  each 
shell  the  watchers  listened  to  the  alarming  mat- 
tock that  went  on  digging,  digging,  digging.  .   .   . 

Sous- Lieutenant  Berthier  came  along  at  night 
with  the  soup  party.  He  listened  for  a  consider- 
able time,  wagged  his  head,  and  straightway  was 
fain  to  reassure  us. 

"Pooh!  ...  It  may  be  pioneers  digging  a 
trench,  and  quite  a  long  way  off,  too.  .  .  .  It's 
most  deceptive,  you  know,  a  noise  like  that.  .  .  . 
I'm  going  to  ask  somebody  in  the  engineers.  .  .  . 
But  don't  you  be  getting  rattled,  it's  certainly  a 
long  way  off  still;  there's  no  danger.   .    .    . " 

We  took  the  watch.  The  shells  were  still  fall- 
ing, but  they  did  not  frighten  us  so  much  just  now. 
We  were  listening  to  that  pickaxe. 

Our  two  hours  over,  we  went  back  into  the 
grotto.     Broucke  listened  and  said : 

"He's  a  reasonable  chap,  he's  not  going  too  hard 
at  it." 

And  placidly  he  went  to  sleep.   - 

We  were  on  the  point  of  blowing  out  the  candle 
when  Lieutenant  Berthier  came  back,  accom- 
panied by  an  adjutant  of  engineers.  Everybody 
got  up  again  and  crowded  into  the  gallery.  The 
first  word  we  caught  was : 

"We  suspected  that." 

Fouillard  had  a  spasm  that  puckered  up  his  eye. 

The  adjutant  had  lain  down,  his  ear  against  the 


Mount  Calvary  193 

earth,  and  was  listening  with  closed  eyes.  Our 
very  silence  was  intently  listening  with  him.  He 
rose  up,  brushed  the  chalk  from  his  whitened  coat 
with  a  slap,  and  went  off  again  with  Berthier  with- 
out saying  anything  to  us,  not  a  single  word. 

"That  means  there's  no  danger  yet,"  surmised 
Lemoine. 

"It  means  we're  going  to  be  sent  up,"  predicted 
Sulphart. 

All  the  same,  we  lay  down,  and  we  went  to  sleep. 
Berthier  came  back  at  early  dawn;  he  had  an  air 
of  gloom,  an  air  of  profound  concern  that  we  did  not 
recognize  in  him  and  which  all  at  once  made  us 
uneasy.  What  did  he  know  ?  He  listened  to  the 
pickaxe  that  still  went  on  digging,  without  glue- 
ing his  ear  to  the  ground,  for  the  blows  were  now 
coming  to  us  more  distinct  and  clear.  We  felt 
ourselves  troubled  by  a  vague  presentiment,  and 
obscure  mixed  fear.     Berthier  came  again. 

"Breval's  squad,  fall  in." 

He  eyed  us  all,  with  the  deep  look  of  a  brave 
man;  then,  letting  his  eyes  rest  only  on  Breval, 
who  since  he  had  the  chip  knocked  out  of  him  wore 
a  dressing  about  his  neck  like  a  linen  collar,  he  said 
to  him : 

"As  you  had  guessed,  the  Germans  are  digging 
a  mine.  The  engineers  perhaps  will  come  along 
to  open  a  sap,  but  theirs  has  to  very  far  advanced 
for  us  to  be  able  to  cut  it.  And  so,  .  .  .  you 
see,  ...  its  unnecessary  for  everybody  to  stay 
here.   .    .    .      You    understand    that    clearly    of 

13 


194  Wooden  Crosses 

course.  .  .  .  And  so,  .  .  .  it  is  your  squad, 
Breval,  that  is  to  remain;  it  has  been  drawn  by 
lot.  The  two  sections  are  to  be  relieved,  and  you 
are  to  stay  here  with  your  squad  and  the  machine 
gunners.  .  .  .  It's  not  much,  but  the  Colonel 
has  every  confidence  in  you;  you  are  well  known 
to  be  brave  fellows.  .  .  .  And  then  there  is  no 
attack  to  be  feared,  since  they  are  still  actually 
digging.  .  .  .  Anyway,  their  mine  is  not  yet 
nearly  finished;  you  needn't  be  afraid.  .  .  . 
There's  no  danger,  no  danger  whatever  at  all. 
...       It's  just  simply  a  measure  of  precaution. ' ' 

He  was  beginning  to  stammer,  his  throat  was 
dry  and  contracted.  His  eyes  wandered  once 
more  around  the  whole  squad,  seeking  all  our  eyes 
in  turn.  Nobody  said  a  word;  only  Fouillard 
sputtered  out : 

*'We  can  go,  anyhow,  to  fetch  the  soup." 

"It  will  be  sent  up  to  you." 

The  others  remained  silent — a  little  pale,  that 
was  all.  Courage?  No,  discipline.  .  .  .  Our 
turn  had  come.    .    .    . 

"We're  for  it,"  said  Vieuble  simply. 

"No,  no,  you're  crazy!"  broke  in  the  Lieuten- 
ant, quickly.  "Don't  get  that  into  your  head. 
....  Look  here —  "  and  he  dropped  his  eyes  in 
embarrassment — "I  would  have  liked  very  much 
to  stay  with  you.  It  was  my  place.  The  Colonel 
refused.     Come,  good-luck  to  you!" 

His  lower  lip  was  trembling,  and  under  his 
glasses  a  film  of  moisture  dimmed  his  eyes.     With 


Mount  Calvary  195 

a  brusque  movement,  he  shook  hands  with  each 
one  of  us  and  went  off,  with  his  teeth  clenched 
and  a  pale  face. 

Already  our  comrades  were  going,  pushing  and 
scrambling,  as  if  they  were  afraid  that  death  might 
lay  hold  of  them.  They  eyed  us  with  queer  looks 
as  they  passed  before  us,  and  the  last  of  them  bade 
us ' '  good-luck. ' '  The  light  little  clink  of  the  chains 
on  their  mess- tins  died  away,  the  clatter  of  the 
empty  cans,  the  sound  of  pebbles  rolling  under 
their  feet,  their  voices.  .  .  .  We  remained 
alone.  The  machine  gunners  sat  down  to  their 
weapon.  Three  of  the  squads  went  down  into  the 
trench,  and  we  went  back  again  into  the  mine. 

"There's  nothing  to  be  done  now  but  wait," 
said  Demachy,  exaggerating  his  air  of  aloof 
indifference. 

Wait  for  what  ?  All  of  us  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
our  beds,  we  kept  staring  at  the  ground,  as  a  des- 
pairing man  might  stare  at  the  dark,  melancholy 
water  running  by  before  his  last  leap.  It  seemed 
to  us  that  the  pickaxe  was  striking  harder  now, 
as  hard  as  our  beating  hearts.  Despite  ourselves, 
we  lay  down  full-length  to  listen  yet  again. 

Fouillard  had  gone  to  bed  in  a  comer,  his  head 
under  the  blankets  so  as  not  to  go  on  hearing,  to 
see  nothing  more.   Breval  said  in  a  hesitating  voice : 

"After  all,  it's  not  settled  that  we're  going  to  be 
blown  up.  .  .  .  A  mine  isn't  made  just  as  easy 
asallthat." 

"Especially  through  rock." 


196  Wooden  Crosses 

''You  might  think  it's  quite  near,  and  yet  there 
might  be  enough  work  in  it  to  keep  them  at  it  a 
week." 

They  were  all  talking  at  once,  just  now,  they 
were  all  making  up  lies  to  put  heart  in  themselves, 
to  go  on  hoping  in  spite  of  everything.  There  was 
a  loud  argument  for  a  minute  in  which  every  one 
had  his  own  story  of  mines  to  tell,  and  when  they 
listened  again,  it  seemed  to  them  that  the  blows 
were  not  falling  so  loud.  Mechanically  they 
unrolled  their  blankets,  and  went  to  rest. 

"Talking  about  waking  up  with  a  jump," 
grumbled  Vieuble  as  he  took  off  his  boots. 

Where  was  the  earth  going  to  yawn  and  split 
in  two?  Shutting  your  eyes,  you  could  imagine 
you  saw  those  horrible  photographs  reproduced 
in  the  illustrated  papers,  those  gaping  funnel- 
shaped  holes  with  stakes  and  bits  of  old  iron,  and 
fragments  of  men  sticking  out  through  the  surface, 
half  buried. 

Lying  there  with  our  heads  resting  on  our  packs, 
we  no  longer  heard  anything  but  the  terrible 
pick,  as  regular  as  the  ticking  of  a  clock,  that 
was  digging  our  grave  for  us. 

"That'll  make  something  Hke  a  noise,"  mur- 
mured Belin.  "Talk  about  the  sort  of  chage 
it'll  need  to  rip  up  a  hill  Hke  that." 

"There  are  three  days  still  before  we  get  out  of 
it." 

"No,  not  more  than  two  and  a  half:  we  ought 
to  be  relieved  on  Wednesday  night." 


Mount  Calvary  197 

Br6val  was  writing  on  his  knees,  completely 
absorbed,  using  his  pack  as  a  writing-desk. 

"You're  doing  the  emotional  stunt  at  your  old 
woman,"  chaffed  Lemoine.  "Are  you  telling  her 
that  we're  going  up  ? " 

The  shells  were  falling  less  thick  this  night. 
The  short  aurora  of  the  rockets  sprang  to  life  and 
died  on  the  tent  canvas.  The  night  was  almost 
calm.  Only  that  muffled  sound  of  the  mattock, 
lulHng  us  to  sleep.    .    .    . 


At  midnight  I  took  over  the  watch.  It  was  cold 
in  the  trench.  The  wind  brought  icy  shivers  down 
from  the  wood  with  it,  and  Gilbert's  teeth  were 
chattering  under  his  blanket. 

*'Can  you  hear?" 

**Yes,  the  knocking  is  still  going  on." 

We  never  looked  into  the  plain  now.  What 
good  would  it  do?  You  could  never  see  any- 
thing there  but  black  shadow  wavering  in  the 
black  dark.     We  listened,  we  pondered. 

The  first  to  speak  was  Gilbert,  in  a  half -whisper, 
with  that  little  mocking  tone  that  annoyed  me, 
and  which  I  loved  none  the  less. 

"It  was  too  fine,  that's  the  truth;  it  was  really 
too  fine.  A  life  free  from  all  care  or  concern, 
a  life  of  daily  delight.  One  day  someone  knocks 
'Rat-tat.  It's  life.'  'But  I  don't  know  you.' 
'So much  the  worse,  it's  your  turn  now.'  She  has 
thrust  a  pick  and  a  rifle  into  your  hands,  and  it's 


198  Wooden  Crosses 

*Dig,  my  lad;  and  march,  my  lad;  and  die,  my 
lad.'" 

"Why  was  it  you  enlisted  too,"  said  Lemoine  to 
him,  "since  you  had  been  discharged  ?  .  .  .  And 
especially  in  the  infantry." 

"Duty,  a  fit  of  enthusiasm,  a  lot  of  non- 
sense.  .    .    ." 

We  had  come  up  to  the  machine  gunners,  hud- 
dled and  silent  under  their  covered  lodgment. 
One  of  them  was  asleep  in  the  far  comer,  his  head 
thrown  back. 

"Not  more  than  two  days  and  a  half,  eh?" 
said  the  chief  gunner  to  us. 

"They'll  have  finished  long  before  that,"  said 
the  other  one. 

Lemoine,  who  without  being  able  to  see  at  all, 
was  carving  away  at  his  walking-stick  that  he 
had  started  the  other  day,  squatted  down  in  a 
comer. 

"If  they're  certain  it's  going  to  be  touched  off," 
said  he,  *  *  they  had  only  to  relieve  us  Hke  the  rest 
of  the  boys.  .  .  .  And  why  our  squad  more  than 
any  other,  anyhow?" 

The  wind  mowed  the  stars  out  of  the  sky  with 
its  keen  scythe.  The  night  was  growing  thicker. 
In  the  trench  we  were  nothing  more  now  than 
black  lumps,  and  in  the  shadow  of  the  covered 
gun-post  there  was  nothing  to  be  discerned  but 
the  reddening  point  of  a  pipe-bowl.  Now  and 
then  somebody  Hfted  the  curtain  from  an  em- 
brasure  and    looked    out.      Nothing.    ...      A 


Mount  Calvary  199 

shiver,  a  murmur:  the  sheep  of  the  darkness  were 
browsing  in  the  fields. 

After  our  three  hours  on  sentry,  we  had  gone 
back  frozen.  And  lying  close  together  under  our 
blankets,  our  satchels  side  by  side  like  pillows,  we 
had  gone  to  sleep  with  the  good,  untroubled  deep 
sleep  of  animals. 


In  the  morning  it  was  a  presentiment,  an  inter- 
nal sense  of  distress,  that  woke  us  up.  There  was 
no  longer  any  sound;  on  the  contrary,  a  tragic 
silence.  The  squad  was  dumb  and  overwhelmed, 
stooping  over  Breval,  who  was  listening,  lying 
down  full  length  on  the  ground.  Sitting  bolt  up- 
right on  our  straw  litter,  we  watched  them. 

"What  is  it?"  whispered  Demachy. 

* '  They're  not  knocking  any  more.  .  .  .  They 
must  be  filling  the  mine.'* 

My  heart  stopped  dead,  as  if  somebody  had 
seized  it  in  his  hand.  I  felt  a  kind  of  cold  shiver. 
It  was  true,  there  was  no  sound  of  digging  now. 
It  was  all  over. 

Breval  got  up,  with  a  mechanical  smile  on  his 
lips. 

"There's  no  mistake  about  it,  they've  stopped 
knocking." 

We  looked  at  the  ground,  as  dumb  as  itself. 
Fouillard,  pallid  and  drawn,  made  a  movement  to 
go  out.  Without  a  word  Hamel  held  him  back  by 
the  arm.     Maroux  had  sat  down,  his  hands  folded 


200  Wooden  Crosses 

between  his  knees,  and  was  drumming  on  the 
planking  of  his  bed  with  his  great  heels. 

''Shut  up!"  said  Vieuble  roughly  to  him. 
"Listen."   .    .    . 

We  all  stretched  our  necks,  anxious,  afraid  to 
deceive  ourselves.  No!  the  pickaxe  had  indeed 
started  again.  It  was  knocking,  knocking.  Oh! 
to  think  that  any  one  could  feel  friendly  to  it  for 
even  a  moment,  that  horrible  pickaxe!  It  was 
digging.  That  meant  respite.  They  were  not 
yet  filling  the  mine,  we  were  not  yet  dying.    .    .    . 

Vieuble  had  broken  free  from  the  feeling  of 
agony  with  a  single  effort.  Livid  with  fury,  he 
leaped  outside,  roaring. 

"He's  crazy,"  cried  Breval.  "What  is  he 
doing?" 

We  ran  after  him.  He  had  clambered  up  on 
top  of  the  sandbags  and  out  of  the  trench  to  his 
waist,  his  neck  at  full  stretch,  he  was  yelling : 

"You  may  dig,  you  lot  of  cows,  we  don't  care 
a — damn  for  you!  Maybe  we'll  all  go  up,  but 
we  don't  care  a — damn  for  you." 

Sulphart  had  seized  him  round  the  middle  and 
tugged  at  him. 

* '  Will  you  be  quiet,  you  big ! " 

Breval  also  was  pulling  him  by  the  arm,  but 
the  other  was  resisting. 

"I  must  bag  one  of  them  before  I'm  sent  up. 
...  I  don't  mean  to  die  like  an  old  rag,"  he 
bellowed.     ' '  I  must  have  one  of  them ! " 

They  succeeded,   however,   in  getting  him  to 


Mount  Calvary  201 

come  down  and  get  back  into  the  sap,  where  he 
grew  calmer,  drinking  Demachy's  old  brandy. 

''That's  good  stuff,"  he  said,  with  the  air  of  a 
connoisseur. 

Tock,  .  .  .  tock,  .  .  .  tock.  ...  It  was 
still  digging  away.  Tock,  tock.  .  .  .  Then  it 
stopped.  We  listened  then,  straining,  more  agon- 
ized.   No.    Tock,   .    .    .  tock,   .    .    .  tock.   .    .    . 

That  went  on  for  two  days  more,  and  one  night. 
Forty  hours  that  we  counted,  that  we  tore  off  in 
patches  of  minutes.  Two  days  and  one  night 
to  listen,  our  mouths  dried  with  fever.  The  last 
evening  it  was  impossible  to  keep  Vieuble  back: 
he  set  off  with  four  grenades  in  his  wallet,  and  at 
the  end  of  an  hour  we  heard  four  sharp  barking 
bursts,  one  after  another,  then  cries  of  distress 
howled  out  in  the  fringes  of  the  wood.  He  had 
well  and  duly  distributed  his  "sodas." 

As  he  was  getting  back  into  the  trench.  Lieu- 
tenant Berthier  arrived,  preceding  the  relief. 
We  were  already  putting  our  packs  up  on  our 
shoulders,  ready  to  start. 

"Ah,"  he  said  to  us.  "I  am  glad.  .  .  .  You 
see,  you  must  never  lose  heart.     It's  all  over." 

"We've  not  got  away  yet,"  trembled  Fouillard. 

"To  be  sent  up  now,  that  really  would  be  any- 
thing but  luck,"  remarked  Lemoine,  with  complete 
gravity. 

The  regular  strokes  were  still  coming  to  us,  re- 
assuring in  spite  of  everything.     But  it  was  no 


202  Wooden  Crosses 

longer  only  the  pickaxe  we  were  watching  for  now, 
it  was  the  relief.  A  dull  murmur  told  us  they 
were  at  hand. 

*' The  relief.  .  .  .  Go  into  the  grotto  to  hand 
over.  I  will  look  after  the  orders,"  Berthier  said 
to  us. 

We  looked  at  men  of  a  regiment  we  did  not 
know  as  they  passed.  There  were  ten  of  them 
only,  and  four  machine  gunners.  The  last  man 
stopped,  having  guessed  at  us  as  we  stood  in  the 
shadow  of  the  gallery. 

''So,  then,  they're  digging  a  mine  underneath? 
.  .  .  We're  certain  to  be  sent  up.  What  do 
you  think? — four  days  of  it.    .    .    . " 

All  speaking  at  once,  we  endeavoured  to  reassure 
them. 

"No  reason  why  you  should.  .  .  .  Look  at 
us>  we've  jolly  well  stayed  in  it.  .  .  .  It  takes 
long,  that  kind  of  stunt.  You  mustn't  get 
worried." 

But  over  his  pack  we  were  closely  keeping  a 
watch  on  the  Lieutenant,  with  quaking  in  our 
knees,  so  hot  we  were  to  be  gone.  Fouillard, 
nobody  knows  how  or  when,  had  already  dis- 
appeared.    Berthier  at  last  came  back. 

''En  route!  .    .    .     Good  luck,  my  lads ! " 

And  turning  towards  Demachy,  he  added  quite 
below  his  breath : 

*' Poor  fellows!     I  am  afraid  for  them.   .    .    ." 

But  for  the  Lieutenant,  who  was  going  at  our 
head  at  a  good  round  pace,  we  might  perhaps  have 


Mount  Calvary  203 

broken  into  a  run.  We  were  afraid  of  that  sinister, 
wan  Calvary,  which  every  now  and  then  the  rock- 
ets showed  up  in  all  its  nakedness.  Fear  of  that 
danger  we  always  felt  behind  us,  always  very 
near. 

We  slipped  into  the  chalky  road  quickly;  we 
crossed  the  footbridge  over  the  river,  and  there 
only  did  we  venture  to  turn  ourselves  about.  The 
Calvary  stood  out,  terrible,  a  dreadful  thing  as 
against  the  green  night,  with  its  battered  stumps 
of  trees  like  the  uprights  of  a  cross. 


We  had  our  food  at  the  exit  from  the  trenches. 
The  cooks  had  made  gravy  and  we  ate  voraciously, 
not  feeling  now  in  our  entrails  those  crooked  fingers 
that  clutched  and  worked  inside  you.  We  drank 
wine  in  full  cups :  the  buckets  had  to  be  emptied 
before  we  went.  Bragging  and  boasting,  Sulphart 
was  pitching  yarns  to  the  boys  of  the  company. 

''And,  I  say,  how  we  made  them  yelp,  the 
Boches,  with  that  lad  Vieuble."    .    .    . 

Every  man  of  the  squad  had  his  own  group 
round  him  and  was  holding  forth.  Vieuble,  whose 
lazy  voice  with  its  rolling  r's,  the  typical  voice  of  a 
town  loafer,  was  notable  among  the  others,  telling 
about  his  patrol. 

"You  may  say  they  did  howl!  I  had  stood  up 
and  I  was  holding  one  of  the  posts  of  their  barbed 
wire  in  my  left  hand,  and  whizz,  bang,  in  on  top 
of  them.   ...     I  never  even  got  a  touch  of  a 


204  Wooden  Crosses 

bullet.  .  .  .  and  twig  the  topping  field-glass  I 
took  off  a  Boche  stiff,  an  officer.   .    .    . " 

The  company  was  following  the  canal  in  a  long, 
rambling  disjointed  file.  From  the  gunners'  dug- 
outs, burrowed  into  the  steep  bank,  a  mist  was 
rising,  and  we  envied  their  damp  dens:  **To  see  the 
war  out  in  there,  well,  you  might  call  that  a  streak 
of  luck!" 

The  black  water  mirrored  nothing  but  the  night, 
and  was  without  life  except  for  a  light  lapping 
ripple.  We  crossed  the  river  on  a  heaving  bridge 
made  out  of  boats  and  casks.  The  canal  once 
passed,  we  entered  into  the  woods,  and  the  cool- 
ness fell  on  your  shoulders  like  a  damp  cloak. 
It  smelled  of  drenching  springtime.  Somewhere 
a  bird  was  singing,  not  realizing  that  it  was 
war-time. 

Behind  us  the  rockets  marked  out  the  infinite, 
endless  line  of  the  trenches.  Soon  the  trees  hid 
them  out  of  sight,  and  the  tall  forests  stifled  the 
raging  voice  of  the  guns.  We  were  moving  away 
from  death. 

As  we  entered  into  the  first  village,  the  leading 
squad  started  to  hum  softly,  and  mechanically  we 
all  began  to  march  in  step  to  the  rhythm. 

C'est  aujourd  'hui  marche  de  nuit 

Au  lieu  d'roupiller,  on  s'prom^ne.   .    .    . 

Then  suddenly,  from  afar,  a  heavy  dull  noise 
shattered  and  shook  the  night :  a  thundering  noise 


Mount  Calvary  205 

of  cataclysm,  that  the  echoes  repeated  lorg  and 
long.     The  mine  had  gone  up. 

The  column  had  halted  as  though  at  the  word  of 
command.  Not  a  voice  was  heard  now.  .  .  . 
We  were  still  listening,  our  hearts  contracted,  as 
if  we  had  been  able  from  the  bank  on  which  we 
were  standing  to  hear  the  cries.  The  guns,  too, 
had  held  their  tongues  in  order  to  listen. 

But  no,  nothing  more,  it  was  all  over. 

"How  many  were  there?"  asked  a  choking 
voice  from  the  ranks. 

"Ten,"  somebody  answered.  "And  four 
machine  gunners." 


CHAPTER  IX 

MOURIR  POUR  LA   PATRIE 

No,  that  is  horrible,  the  band  ought  not  to  play 
that  tune.   .    .    . 

The  man  has  collapsed  on  himself  in  a  heap 
held  up  to  the  stake  by  his  bound  hands.  The 
handkerchief  tied  round  his  head  by  way  of  a 
bandage  makes  a  kind  of  crown  for  him.  Pallid, 
livid,  the  Chaplain  is  saying  a  prayer,  with  eyes 
shut  so  that  he  need  see  no  longer.    .    .    . 

Never,  even  in  our  worst  hours,  have  we  felt 
Death  as  imminent  as  on  this  day.  We  divine 
him,  we  scent  his  presence,  like  a  dog  that  will 
break  into  a  long  howl  next  moment.  Is  it  a 
soldier,  that  blue  heap  ?     He  must  be  warm  still. 

Oh !  To  be  obliged  to  look  on  that,  and  to  keep 
for  ever  in  the  memory  his  wild  cry,  the  cry  of  an 
animal,  that  dreadful,  unendurable  cry  in  which  we 
felt  both  terror  and  horror  and  supplication;  all 
that  a  man  can  utter  who  suddenly  sees  all  at  once 
Death  there,  in  front  of  him — Death  Himself:  a 
little  shaft  of  wood  and  eight  pallid  men,  their 
rifle  butts  at  their  feet. 

That  long  cry  had  driven  deep  into  the  hearts 
of  all  of  us  like  a  nail.     And  suddenly,  in  that 

206 


Mourir  pour  la  Patrie         207 

hideous,  hoarse  gasping  that  fell  upon  the  ears  of 
a  whole  horrified  regiment,  words  were  caught,  a 
dying  prayer:  '*Ask  for  a  pardon  for  me.  .  .  . 
Ask  the  Colonel  for  a  pardon.    .    .    ." 

He  flung  himself  upon  the  ground,  trying  to 
thrust  back  the  moment  when  he  must  die,  and 
they  dragged  him  to  the  stake  by  the  arms,  a  dead 
weight,  lifeless,  howling.  To  the  very  end  he 
uttered  his  cries.  We  heard  them!  "My  little 
children!  ...  Oh,  Colonel!  ..."  His  sobs 
tore  through  that  awe-stricken  silence,  and  the 
quaking  soldiers  had  only  one  idea  left:  Oh! 
quick!  .  .  .  quick!  ...  let  there  be  an  end. 
Let  them  fire,  let  us  hear  him  no  longer.    .    .    . " 

The  tragic  crackling  of  a  volley.  One  other 
shot,  one  by  itself:  the  coup  de  grdce.  It  was 
all  over. 

We  had  to  defile  in  front  of  his  corpse  after- 
wards. The  band  struck  up  Mourir  pour  la  Patrie, 
and  the  companies  went  hobbling  off  one  after 
the  other,  their  pace  no  better  than  a  shamble. 
Berthier  clenched  his  teeth  hard  so  that  it 
should  not  be  seen  how  his  jaw  quivered. 
When  he  gave  the  order.  En  avant!  Vieuble,  who  was 
weeping  with  his  breast  heaving  wildly  like  a 
child's,  left  the  ranks  and  flung  away  his  rifle; 
then  he  fell  down,  taken  with  a  nervous  seizure. 

As  we  passed  before  the  stake,  every  head  was 
turned  away.  We  dared  not  even  look  one  man 
at  his  fellow,  haggard  and  hollow-eyed  as  if  we  had 
just  been  committing  some  crime. 


2o8  Wooden  Crosses 

There  is  the  pig-stye  in  which  he  spent  his  last 
night,  so  low  that  he  could  not  get  up  from  hands 
and  knees  in  it.  He  must  have  heard  on  the  high 
road  the  rhythmic  step  of  the  companies  coming 
down  to  take  their  arms.  Will  he  have  under- 
stood ? 

It  was  in  the  ballroom  of  the  Cafe  de  la 
Poste  that  he  was  tried,  last  night.  There  were 
in  it  still  the  pineboughs  from  our  last  concert,  the 
red,  white  and  blue  paper  garlands,  and  on  the 
stage  the  big  poster  painted  by  the  musicians: 
"Don't  worry,  and  let  them  talk!" 

A  little  corporal,  assigned  to  the  task,  defended 
him,  embarrassed,  broken  with  pity.  All  alone 
on  that  stage,  his  arms  hanging  awkwardly,  you 
might  have  thought  he  was  just  going  to  ' '  tip  'em 
a  stave";  and  the  Government  commissary 
laughed,  discreetly,  behind  his  neat  gloved  hand. 

"You  know  what  he  had  done?" 

"The  other  night,  after  the  attack,  he  was  put 
forward  for  the  patrol.  As  he  had  already  been 
out  the  night  before,  he  refused.  There  you 
are.   .    .    ." 

*  *  Did  you  know  him  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  he  was  a  fellow  from  Cotteville.  He  had 
two  boys." 

Two  boys,  the  same  height  as  that  stake  of 
his.   .    .   . 


CHAPTER  X 

OUR  LADY  OF  THE  RAG-PICKERS' 

The  highroad  was  swarming,  black  and  noisy,  like 
a  gallery  in  a  mine  if  you  were  suddenly  to  switch 
out  all  the  lights  at  the  hour  of  the  return  to  the 
surface  of  the  earth.  A  whole  obscure  crowd  that 
could  not  be  seen,  but  could  be  felt,  full  of  life,  was 
struggling  in  the  heart  of  that  inky  night,  each 
troop  boring  out  a  path  for  itself;  and  from  this 
mob  there  rose  a  mixed  noise  of  trampling  feet, 
of  voices,  of  creaking  wheels,  of  horses  neighing,  of 
hard  language,  all  confused  and  mingled,  just  as 
the  fields,  the  road,  and  the  men  were  all  mingled 
into  the  same  thick  shadowy  gloom. 

And  yet  there  was  a  certain  order  in  all  that 
mob.  The  Territorials  making  their  way  back  to 
the  rear,  our  regiments  going  up  to  the  line,  the 
carts,  the  waggons,  each  and  all  had  their  ap- 
pointed road;  companies  met  each  other  and 
passed  elbow  to  elbow,  thrust  up  against  the  bank  by 
the  motor-cyclists :  ' '  Keep  to  the  right !  Keep  to 
the  right!"  the  big  hairy  nostrils  of  the  artillery 
teams  blew  in  our  faces;  the  huge  wheels  of  the 

^Rag-picker,  biffin:  slang  term  for  infantry,  whose  pack  is  like 
the  rag-picker's  basket. 

14  209 


2IO  Wooden  Crosses 

lorries  grazed  our  boots ;  and  through  this  turmoil 
of  creatures  and  things,  the  army  of  attack  slowly 
drove  its  columns  with  a  never-ending  tramp  of  feet. 

Piled  along  the  ditch,  whole  halted  regiments 
watched  us  passing.  The  men  who  were  on  their 
feet  were  craning  their  necks,  seeming  to  look 
for  somebody  in  that  dark  stream.  We  could 
guess  at  others  wallowing  down  in  the  grass:  a 
white  satchel,  the  red  tip  of  a  cigarette.  From  them 
to  us,  voices  hailed  each  other  back  and  forth. 

"What  regiment  is  that?" 

*'Is  there  another  village  before  the  trenches?" 

*' Where  do  you  come  from?" 

The  loafing  Bohemian  voice  of  a  Parisian  called 
from  our  ranks : 

' '  Are  there  any  boys  from  Montmartre  ?  Good- 
morning  to  the  lads  of  Barb^s!" 

These  unacquainted  voices  sought  one  another 
and  joined  one  another  like  meeting  hands. 

Sulphart,  who  had  just  been  livened  up  by  a 
draught  of  wine,  replied  with  chaff. 

* '  What  company's  that  ? " 

'  *  The  gas  company ! ' ' 

We  were  going  forward  by  jerks  and  starts, 
with  an  irregular  pace  that  tired  out  the  legs. 
Every  now  and  then  we  came  to  a  halt,  with  the 
road  simply  bottled  up;  we  would  hear  in  the 
darkness  the  tinkling  of  the  curb-chains  of  horses 
rearing,  and  the  swearing  of  the  gunners.  Men 
would  take  hold  of  us  by  the  arms. 

"It's  you  who  are  going  to  make  the  attack? 


Our  Lady  of  the  Rag- Pickers  211 

The  sidis  are  in  position  up  there  ah-eady.  .  .  . 
And  there's  a  swarm  of  guns,  you  know.   ..." 

Then  close  by  me,  Fouillard  growled  out : 

"And  the  Boches,  they've  got  no  guns,  I  sup- 
pose, no  ?  Pack  of  old  blitherers !  It  sticks  in  my 
gizzard  to  hear  that  kind  of  stuff." 

When  the  column  set  off  again,  edging  its  way 
between  two  files  of  waggons  and  foaming  horses, 
he  took  hold  of  one  by  the  tail  and  tugged  at  it 
brutally.  The  heavy  rump  of  the  beast  never  so 
much  as  budged. 

"So  he  doesn't  even  know  how  to  kick,  your 
rotten  moke,"  he  cried  to  the  driver,  huddled  up 
on  his  seat.  "He  couldn't  manage  to  give  me  a 
broken  leg,  God's  truth!" 

A  machine-gun  mule  was  walking  in  our  ranks, 
rattling  his  boxes.  Fouillard  stuck  to  him  hke 
wax,  in  the  hope  that  he  would  start  plunging,  and 
to  stir  him  up  to  it  he  played  his  trick  again,  haul- 
ing on  the  mule's  tail  like  a  bell-rope.  Stupefied 
and  apathetic  as  any  of  the  men,  the  mule  never 
turned  a  hair. 

"Have  you  gone  clean  crazy?"  said  Hamel. 
"And  suppose  he  let  you  have  a  punch  with  his 
hoof  in  the  belly?" 

"I  don't  care  a  blow.  ...  I'd  be  delighted; 
then  I  shouldn't  be  in  the  attack." 

Behind  him  Gilbert  jeered,  in  the  tone  with 
which  he  would  have  read  a  citation  in  Army 
Orders: 

"Has  always  displayed  proofs  of  the  utmost 


212  Wooden  Crosses 

courage  and  initiative,  and  given  his  comrades 
the  example  of  an  incomparable  bravery." 

Fouillard  turned  round  about. 

"You!  I  don't  care  a  hang  about  you!  You 
go  and  mind  your  backside!" 

Weighted  down  under  his  pack,  Breval 
murmured; 

**The  courage  to  blackguard  one  another  .  .  . 
more  stupid  than  the  horses.   .    .    .  " 

The  outlines  of  the  trees  could  barely  be  dis- 
cerned, so  black  was  the  night ;  and  in  the  distance, 
over  towards  the  lines  where  our  guns  were  thun- 
dering in  gusts,  there  was  no  gleam  or  light  in  the 
low  sky.  The  invisible  battle  was  unfolding  on 
the  other  side  of  that  wall  of  blackness,  and  the 
roads,  filled  and  swollen  like  arteries,  were  driving 
fresh  blood  along  up  to  it. 

The  column  marked  time  where  it  stood  for  a 
minute.  "Keep  to  the  right!"  was  being  shouted 
in  front  of  us.  We  started  again  in  a  dislocated 
file.  There  were  some  black  objects  blocking  up 
the  road:  two  horses  with  outstretched  stiff  legs, 
an  overthrown  cart,  and  some  dead  bodies,  whose 
grievous  shapes  could  be  defined  under  the  canvas 
covering.  A  hot,  insipid  smell  rose  up  from  this 
heap.  Quickly  there  were  territorials  filling  up 
the  wide  hole  the  shell  had  torn  out. 

One  of  the  old  fellows  was  not  working.  Stand- 
ing up  on  a  milestone,  he  dominated  our  rising 
tide,  and  bending  forward,  straining  to  see,  he 
was  calling: 


Our  Lady  of  the  Rag- Pickers  213 

"Emile  Bailleul,  of  the  fifth  company.  .  .  . 
Isn't  that  the  fifth  company  going  by?  Emile! 
Emile!  .  .  .  Don't  you  know  Bailleul? — it's  my 
son.     Hello!    Emile!" 

The  spent  column  filed  on  in  front  of  him,  ob- 
scure, impenetrable  to  the  eye.  No  one  replied. 
As  they  passed,  heads  would  turn  and  look  at  the 
old  man.     Behind  us  his  voice  was  still  calling: 

*' Emile!  .  .  .  Don't  you  know  young  Bail- 
eul,  of  the  fifth?" 

Ah  yes,  indeed,  we  had  known  him.  .  .  .  Poor 
fellow ! 


Out  of  the  whole  church  there  has  been  kept 
only  this  altar  corner :  the  chapel  of  the  Virgin  and 
six  rows  of  prie-dieus.  All  the  rest  has  been  trans- 
formed into  a  hospital,  and  from  the  other  side  of 
a  wooden  partition,  that  separates  us  from  the 
nave,  we  can  hear  the  wounded  men  groaning. 

Two  hundred  men  are  squeezed  in  together  to 
hear  mass.  The  others  are  imder  the  porch,  and 
even  in  the  cemetery,  where,  as  they  talk,  sitting 
on  the  edges  of  the  tombstones,  they  can  hear  the 
chants  and  canticles. 

Some  are  arriving  from  the  trench,  covered 
with  mud,  their  faces  grey,  their  hands  thick  with 
earth;  others,  on  the  contrary,  are  still  all  ruddy 
and  glowing  from  their  toilette  under  the  pump. 
Everyone  hustles  and  jostles,  and  all  are  crowded 
on  top  of  one  another — dirty  soldier's  overcoats 


214  Wooden  Crosses 

and  officer's  jackets.  A  few  women  in  deep  mourn- 
ing; a  few  girls  whom  the  men  ogle,  digging  elbows 
in  one  another;  and  in  the  place  of  honour,  a 
clean-shaven  peasant,  fifty  years  old,  very  correct 
and  dignified  in  his  black  Sunday  clothes. 

At  each  genuflection  of  the  priest,  his  blue 
puttees  can  be  perceived  underneath  his  soutane ; 
it  is  one  of  the  stretcher-bearers  in  our  company 
who  is  taking  the  service.  Upon  the  single  stone 
step  four  bearded  soldiers  are  telling  the  beads  of 
their  rosary:  all  priests  as  well.  The  wind  softly 
stirs  the  white  cloths  that  hide  the  broken 
windows. 

Not  a  candlestick  on  the  altar,  the  tabernacle 
even  has  been  taken  away.  There  is  noth- 
ing left  now  but  the  Virgin  in  her  blue  robe 
sprinkled  with  stars,  and  with  a  bunch  of  daisies 
at  her  feet — Our  Lady  of  the  soldier-men,  .  .  . 
the  rag-pickers. 

She  reaches  out  both  her  hands,  her  two  little 
pink  hands  of  tinted  plaster,  two  all-powerful 
hands  that  save  him  who  prays  to  her.  They  are 
not  all  believers,  these  soldiers  away  from  their 
labours:  but  all  believe  in  her  hands;  they  are 
fain  to  believe  in  them,  blindly,  so  as  to  feel  them- 
selves defended,  protected;  they  are  fain  to  pray 
to  her,  as  one  presses  close  up  against  a  stronger 
than  oneself — to  pray  to  her  so  as  to  feel  fear  no 
longer,  and  to  keep,  as  a  talisman,  the  memory  of 
her  two  hands. 

Some  have  genuinely  come  here  to  pray.     The 


Our  Lady  of  the  Rag-Pickers  215 

others,  those  whose  crowded  numbers  are  over- 
flowing into  the  cemetery,  are  waiting  to  see  the  girls 
go  by:  the  mass  is  a  kind  of  soldiers'  sightseeing. 
On  this  eve  of  attack  they  have  come  in  still 
greater  numbers  than  on  other  Sundays.  They 
are  singing.  Their  masculine  voices  even  in 
prayer  retain  a  rude  accent  of  a  brutal  life;  they 
sing  with  no  restraint,  at  the  tops  of  their  voices, 
as  they  would  in  a  wine  parlour,  and  the  chant  at 
times,  drowns  the  guns: 

Sauvez,  sauvez  la  France 

Au  nom  du  Sacr^-Cceur.   .    .    . 

They  sing  that  without  a  thought  of  the  words, 
ingenuously,  like  choir  boys  singing  themselves 
hoarse;  and  how  many  of  us  are  there,  with  shut 
eyes,  our  foreheads  bowed  into  our  hands,  that 
this  hymn  fills  with  emotion  so  that  we  seem  to 
be  choking! 

Sauvez,  sauvez  la  France.    .    .    . 

It  is  like  a  deep  cry  rising  from  these  human 
organs!  From  the  other  side  of  the  partition  a 
wounded  man  is  crying:  "No!  you  are  hurting 
me!  .  .  .  Not  that  way!  ..."  You  can 
imagine  the  hurrying  hand  tearing  off  the  muddy 
first-aid  dressing.  It  is  these  complaints,  these 
hoarse  outcries,  that  make  the  responses  to  the 
priest. 

Then  the  bell  tinkles  and  every  head  is  bowed. 


2i6  Wooden  Crosses 

You  might  say  that  the  prayer  bends  them  over 
like  a  field  of  grain  before  a  blowing  wind.  We 
remain  still,  elbow  against  elbow,  packed  as  though 
in  a  sap  waiting  the  moment  of  attack.  The  guns 
storm  and  thunder,  in  their  own  way  sounding  the 
Elevation  of  the  Host;  but  they  are  heard  no 
longer,  nor  the  rattling  breath  of  the  wounded. 
There  is  nothing  more  now  in  that  church  save 
the  two  arms  of  a  soldier  raising  the  Pyx  towards 
the  Virgin  of  the  kind  hands. 

The  bell  tinkles.  .  .  .  What  are  we  begging 
from  you,  if  it  is  not  hope,  Our  Lady  of  the  Rag- 
pickers? 

We  accept  everything:  the  reliefs  under  the 
drenching  rain,  the  nights  in  the  mire,  the  days 
without  bread,  the  superhuman  weariness  that 
turns  us  more  brutish  than  the  beasts — we  accept 
all  and  every  suffering;  but  let  us  live,  only  that 
and  no  more,  just  to  live !  .  .  .  Or  only  to  believe 
we  are  to  live,  up  to  the  very  end ;  always  to  have 
hope,  to  have  hope  in  despite  of  everything !  Now 
V.and  in  the  hour  of  our  death,  so  be  it.   .    .    . 

Ranged  up  in  two  ranks,  the  soldiers  were 
watching  the  girls  coming  out  of  church,  robust, 
fresh,  jolly  girls  with  bright-coloured  bodices, 
their  cheeks  polished  as  if  for  a  regimental  in- 
spection, who  were  laughing  and  chatting  loudly, 
to  give  themselves  the  Paris  manner.  Greedy 
eyes  devoured  them  with  desire,  and  compliments 
of  the  crudest  greeted  the  handsomest. 


Our  Lady  of  the  Rag-Pickers  217 

The  mayor's  daughter,  a  miserable,  anaemic- 
looking  creature,  had  gone  off  with  dropped  eyes 
with  the  post-ojffice  young  lady,  a  slender  young 
girl  in  a  black  dress  like  a  saleswoman  in  a  shop, 
who  walked  with  a  dancing,  tripping  step,  and 
would  have  been  the  better  for  a  touch  of  powder 
on  her  dull  cheeks.  Bourland  had  gone  quite  red 
at  sight  of  her,  and  she  had  smiled  at  him. 

"Are  we  on?'*  proposed  Sulphart,  who,  being 
newly  shorn  and  groomed,  fancied  himself  irre- 
sistible. 

But  Vieuble  was  not  interested.  With  a  long 
blade  of  grass,  he  was  busy  tickling  from  a  distance 
the  palm  of  the  hand  of  the  hostess  of  the  wine- 
shop, who  was  playing  the  beauty  among  her 
women  friends. 

"Don't  you  touch  it!"  he  replied  under  his 
breath  to  the  redhead.  "I  tell  you  we'll  be 
having  drinks  on  the  nod." 

At  the  gate  of  the  cemetery,  the  Chaplain  whose 
bicycle  was  leaned  up  against  the  wall,  was  distribut- 
ing scapulars  and  cigarette-papers. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  street  it  was  trench 
knives  that  were  being  handed  out. 

That  was  going  on  in  the  farrier's  yard.  In 
front  of  the  house  the  Army  Service  people  were 
unloading  a  covered  waggon  of  munitions,  big 
boxes  of  cartridges  which  they  took  hold  of,  a  man 
at  every  corner,  the  way  undertakers  lower  their 
coffins.  Once  through  the  porch,  it  was  just  like 
the  thieves'  market.     On  the  pavement  there  had 


2i8  Wooden  Crosses 

been  dumped  a  heap  of  huge  knives — stout  jocta- 
legs  with  wooden  handles — and  Lambert,  the 
quartermaster,  squatting  before  his  booth,  was 
busy  distributing  them  squad  by  squad.  It  was 
a  noisy  mob;  everybody  was  talking  loudly  and 
using  his  elbows. 

"It's  all  the  same  to  me,**  shouted  Lambert, 
his  cheeks  absolutely  crimson.  ''It  doesn't  con- 
cern me  at  all.  .  .  .  I've  been  told  to  give  out 
knives  to  the  whole  of  the  second  section  and 
I'm  giving  out  the  knives  ....  If  they  had 
told  me  to  distribute  umbrellas  to  you,  I  would 

give  you  umbrellas Anything  else,  it's 

not  my  business,  ...  go  and  talk  to  the  major 
about  it." 

Little  by  little  the  heap  of  blades  grew  smaller. 

"Hurry  on!"  chaffed  the  quartermaster. 
"There  won't  be  enough  for  everybody.  Come 
along,  anybody  that  hasn't  got  his  knife." 

And  turning  round  to  an  old  sergeant  that  I  had 
not  noticed  before,  and  who  was  standing  just 
behind  him,  he  added,  wrinkling  his  forehead  up: 

**I  know  some  of  them  won't  have  any  use  for 
them,  for  knives.  .  .  .  Those  are  the  clever 
ones  that  know  the  right  way  to  go  through  the 
war,  those  ones.   .    .    . " 

The  old  man  made  no  reply.  He  had  a  white 
beard,  and  the  boys  who  were  staring  hard  at  him 
asked  one  another  out  loud  what  he  was  going 
to  do  in  that  place. 

"What's  he  going  to  do?"  explained  Lambert. 


Our  Lady  of  the  Rag- Pickers  219 

"Here's  what  he's  going  to  do,  .  .  .  he's  going 
to  take  my  job,  that's  it  plump  and  plain.  Yes, 
my  lads,  I'm  relieved,  and  turned  over  to  the 
third  as  chief  of  section ;  and  it's  that  old  pilgrim 
who  is  replacing  me." 

"But  who  is  he?" 

"He's  an  old  nut  who  has  had  both  his  sons 
killed,"  said  the  quartermaster  angrily.  "And 
so  he  enlisted.  .  .  .  Naturally,  of  course,  when 
the  Colonel  saw  that  old  zebra  coming  ashore,  he 
didn't  feel  like  bunging  him  into  the  trench,  and  he 
named  him  in  my  place,  without  making  any  bones 
about  it.  .  .  .  Isn't  that  a  pretty  good  shame, 
eh?  I  don't  care  a  blow  for  his  two  blooming 
sons!  It's  not  my  business  to  avenge  them.  I've 
lathered  plenty  the  year  I  put  in  in  the  trenches. 
If  he  wanted  to  fight  about  it,  he  had  only  to  go 
and  do  it  himself,  instead  of  sneaking  my  bit  of 
cushy  and  sending  me  to  get  my  head  broken  for 
him.  .  .  .  All  the  same,  it's  not  so  dusty,  eh? 
Enlisted  at  his  age!    The  old  billiard-top!" 

The  old  man,  holding  aloof,  said  never  a  word, 
with  a  vacant,  absent  air,  and  with  a  sad  and  dis- 
tant look  that,  in  spite  of  everything,  wrung  my 
heart. 

"Come  along,  the  seventh,"  called  Lambert; 
"hurry  up!  .  .  .  Ten  beautiful  brand  new 
blades.  This  isn't  a  kind  of  cheapjack  bargain, 
it's  good  business." 

The  corporals  went  off,  their  pockets  full  of 
knives.     Out  in  the  street  some  of  the  boys,  just 


220  Wooden  Crosses 

to  make  the  girls  stare,  would  open  theirs  with  a 
dry  sharp  snap,  and  try  the  point  on  the  back  of 
the  hand. 

''Nice  kind  of  business  you  may  say,"  said  a  lad 
of  the  company  to  me,  with  a  face  of  consterna- 
tion. "What  do  you  think  I  want  to  do  with  a 
knife?  I'm  a  gardener,  I  am,  in  civvies.  And  one 
of  my  fellows  even  is  a  bookseller.  What  kind  of 
trades  are  those  to  be  taking  to  a  knife?" 

Berthier  was  strolling  alone,  always  meditative, 
his  hands  locked  behind  his  back  and  his  head 
down.  I  joined  him.  He  repeated  to  me  every- 
thing he  had  been  told  about  the  attack  in  the 
morning's  report.  Only  one  order  for  the  present : 
to  go  through.  No  unit  would  be  relieved  during 
the  actual  fighting ;  fresh  waves  of  men  would  rein- 
force the  shattered  waves  continuously,  and  we 
were  to  go  forward  in  spite  of  everything.  At 
our  side  the  Moroccan  Division,  the  Legion 
from  the  Twentieth  Corps;  behind  us,  the  whole 
army.   .    .    . 

"I  have  complete  confidence,"  he  said  to  me 
in  a  resolute  tone. 

Stopping,  he  looked  squarely  at  me. 

"I  believe  we  are  going  to  get  through." 

"So  do  I.   .    .    .     I  think  so  too." 

This  unreasoning  confidence  was  felt  by  all  the 
men,  in  every  voice;  it  was  in  the  air,  even  in  in- 
animate things.  Was  it  the  guns  that  thundered 
without  respite  or  slackening,  pounding  the  ground 
we  were  to  conquer,  that  drove  deep  into  us  that 


Our  Lady  of  the  Rag-Pickers  221 

certainty  of  victory?  Without  reason,  by  mere 
instinct,  we  were  full  of  this  confidence.  For  the 
first  time,  we  had  the  feeling  that  we  were  making 
ready  for  a  pitched  battle  and  not  for  one  of  those 
tragic  clashes,  one  of  those  burlesque  flit  tings,  that 
was  all  the  preceding  attacks  had  amounted  to. 

At  the  end  of  the  villlage,  behind  a  small  wood, 
the  heavy  artillery  was  firing  in  hurried  salvos, 
without  seeing  anything  more  of  the  war  than 
a  green  curtain  of  hazel  trees.  As  it  was  hot,  the 
gunners  had  taken  off  their  vests  for  the  sake  of 
comfort,  and  glistening  with  sweat,  they  were 
handling  their  shells  like  bakers  thrusting  bread 
into  the  oven. 

** Never  have  we  fired  as  much  as  this,"  said  a 
corporal  of  the  echelon.  **  Every  gun  has  not 
more  than  twenty  metres'  front  to  pound;  it's 
impossible  anything  should  be  left,  anything  at 
all.    ..." 

In  a  bucket  of  water  near  a  pyramid  of  golden 
shell-cases,  there  were  bottles  standing  in  the  cool. 
Between  two  shoots,  the  gunners,  in  their  shirts, 
came  over  to  have  a  drink ;  then  having  wiped  their 
foreheads  with  the  back  of  a  hand,  they  set  to 
again  at  their  infernal  game  of  bowls. 

On  the  road  or  lying  all  along  the  bank,  cavalry- 
men were  loafing  about,  leaving  their  horses  to 
tear  the  bark  off  the  trees  in  strips.  At  first  we 
looked  at  them  askance,  jealous  of  their  better 
post,  their  far  too  clean  tunics,  and  above  all,  of 
the  "good-morrows"  the  girls  kept  sending  them 


222  Wooden  Crosses 

from  afar;  but  we  didn't  fire  off  the  usual  chaff  at 
them ;  no  one  asked  them  with  an  air  of  making  a 
fool  of  them:  "Do  you  know  whereabouts  those 
blooming  trenches  are?"  On  the  contrary,  we 
were  very  soon  chatting  like  pals.     They  said  to  us : 

"We'rethearmy  of  pursuit.  .  .  .  Once  you'll 
have  made  your  break  through,  we'll  charge  and 
attack  their  reserves  for  you.    .    .    . " 

Behind  us  a  whole  army  was  waiting — armoured 
cars,  bridging  engineers,  squadrons,  batteries  of 
seventy -fives — and  we  fancied  already  we  felt  the 
weight  of  that  huge  mass  thrusting  us  on.  We 
talked  and  argued,  seized  by  a  kind  of  fever.  A 
tall  gunner,  somewhat  soaked  in  wine,  kept  on 
repeating : 

'*I  tell  you  that  after  this  stroke  the  war  is 
over  and  done.  ...  It's  the  last  attack 
boys.   ..." 

Never  had  we  seen  before  so  many  different 
uniforms,  down  to  the  great  red  cloaks  of  the 
spahis,  behind  the  rusty  railings  of  the  chateau. 
It  may  perhaps  have  been  the  ardour  exhaled  from 
all  these  beings,  like  a  breath,  that  made  us  live 
for  a  whole  day  in  this  warm  atmosphere  of  hope. 
It  intoxicated  the  least  courageous,  to  have  so 
many  spectators,  to  be  in  the  eyes  of  all  those 
people  "the  boys  that  are  going  to  make  the 
attack." 

To  wheedle  the  girls,  to  astonish  the  raw  con- 
scripts, we  talked  loud  and  swaggered  about ;  and 
when  we  met  the  men  from  a  newly  relieved  regi- 


Our  Lady  of  the  Rag- Pickers  223 

ment  just  going  down  to  rest,  we  looked  at  them 
from  a  height,  a  trifle  mocking. 

"A  lot  that's  only  fit  to  lose  the  trenches  that 
other  people  take." 

''Don't  be  afraid,  it's  what  you'll  never  win,  the 
wooden  cross!" 

Through  the  open  windows  of  a  tavern,  in  a  cool 
alley  bordered  with  white  elder-blossom  that 
sweetened  the  lips,  cries  were  heard.  Chairs 
were  being  thrown  about,  men  were  pushing  and 
jostling,  and  singing  through  the  clinking  of 
glasses  knocked  together,  and  you  could  feel,  from 
the  mere  noise  by  itself,  that  their  bellicose  temper 
was  mounting.  In  verity,  I  could  hardly  recog- 
nize them  now. 

On  his  feet,  glass  in  hand,  Fouillard  was  doing 
his  best  to  shout  j  in  a  voice  that  kept  crackmg: 

"  Fix  bayonets !  .    .    .     Enavantf' 

Vieuble,  who  happened  to  pass,  showing  off  with 
his  croix  de  guerre  and  his  medal,  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

''Those  are  always  the  ones  that  have  the  most 
yap,"  he  said  aggressively. 

"Where  are  you  off  to,  that  way? — for  soup?" 

"No;  I'm  feeding  with  you,  at  the  wine-shop 
where  they're  making  grub  for  you.  ...  It  was 
Gilbert  who  asked  me  to  come,  because  I've  sworn 
to  help  Sulphart  to  carry  him  back  if  he  should 
happen  to  be  wounded." 

As  he  walked,  with  a  yellowed  fag  stuck  to  his 
drooping  lip,  he  was  meditating. 


224  Wooden  Crosses 

"And  yet,  .  .  .  Sulphart — h*m — he's  one  of  the 
boys.  Well,  I  wouldn't  feel  too  sure  myself.  .  .  . 
He's  another  of  those  blighters  that  get  punctured." 

Mechanically,  like  horses  making  for  their 
stable,  we  steered  our  way  towards  the  enclosure 
where  Bouffioux  had  established  his  travelling 
kitchen.  Massed  around  a  rustic  table,  a  score  of 
men  were  moving  about. 

In  the  midst  of  the  group,  driving  the  others 
back  with  a  circular  gesture,  like  a  strong  man  of 
the  country  fairs  about  to  go  through  a  weight- 
lifting  performance,  Hamel  with  his  sleeves  well 
rolled  up,  was  giving  an  exhibition.  He  had 
brought  out  his  sailor's  cutlass,  which  he  was 
holding  with  a  powerful  grip  in  his  big  hairy  hand; 
he  steadied  himself,  and  with  a  sudden  fierce 
stroke  and  a  grunt  like  a  woodcutter,  he  buried 
the  whole  blade  in  an  enormous  quarter  of  beef 
already  gaping  with  a  score  of  wounds.  Those 
who  had  got  hold  of  trench  knives  were  pushing 
and  scrimmaging  behind  him,  shouting  as  though 
they  were  going  to  fight.  They  flung  themselves 
on  the  meat,  and  one  after  another  they  were 
hacking  it  to  pieces  with  ferocious  blows. 

As  their  blade  came  away,  they  carried  off  with 
it  bits  of  suet,  shavings  of  tendons,  and  the  meat, 
riddled  with  stabs,  was  losing  its  shape,  was  flat- 
tening down  like  a  rag  on  the  chipped  table. 
Warned  by  Lemoine,  who  alone  "didn't  think  it 
much  of  game  to  knock  the  stuffing  out  of  a  lump  of 
beef,"  Bouffioux  came  running  up,  his  great  belly 


Our  Lady  of  the  Rag- Pickers  225 

shaking  and  jogging  above  his  trousers  that  were 
tumbling  down. 

"Pack  of  swabs!"  he  yelled.  "And  after  all 
this  you'll  be  complaining  again  that  the  stew  is 
no  good.  ...  I'm  through  this  time,  and  I'll 
tell  the  Lieutenant." 

Hamel,  as  he  wiped  his  knife,  was  looking  at  the 
cook  with  the  air  of  a  big  dog  who  has  been 
disturbed. 

"Does  it  annoy  you  that  somebody  is  showing 
them?  And  the  boys  that  maybe  are  going  to 
have  to  fight  to-morrow,  you're  through  with 
them,  are  you?  .  .  .  You'll  stay  where  you 
are  and  peel  potatoes.     Shirker!     Cuthbert!" 

"What  are  you  blackguarding  him  about?" 
interposed  Lemoine  in  his  soft  voice.  "You  are 
quite  well  pleased  to  eat  his  grub." 

"And  you,  what  are  you  shoving  your  nose  into, 
you  beetroot,"  replied  Vieuble  at  once. 

Big  Lemoine  didn't  turn  a  hair,  he  even  still 
kept  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  towering  by  a  head 
above  the  snarling  Parisian  who  came  up  to  him  to 
provoke  him  to  his  face. 

*  *  Pequenot !  He  was  brought  up  in  the  kitchen 
of  a  little  eating-house." 

"And  I  will  as  much  as  I  like,  and  it  isn't  you 
that  will  stop  me,"  retorted  the  other  quietly, 
wrinkling  up  his  obstinate  forehead.  "Nobody 
ought  to  knock  meat  about." 

"Because  they  didn't  have  any  to  eat  in  your 
house,  pig-belly!" 
15 


226  Wooden  Crosses 

"Maybe  I  was  better  fed  than  you  were  your- 
self. .  .  .  It's  no  good  your  swaggering,  you 
can't  have  always  had  your  fill  to  eat  with  that 
mug  on  you." 

' '  Hold  your  tongue,  baby !     I'll  smack  you ! " 

Suddenly  the  intent  circle  closed  in  a  little. 
Look  out !  ...  he  had  said  vous.  Things  looked 
like  going  too  far.  Crimson,  stammering,  sweat 
standing  out  on  his  temples,  Bouffioux  was  twit- 
tering all  manner  of  confused  nonsense. 

"Anyway,  it's  not  you  that's  going  to  smack 
me,"  said  Lemoine,  continuing  the  row,  but  with 
no  great  assurance. 

"And  then,  after  all  this,  when  the  grub  .  .  . " 
said  Boiiffioux  hoarsely. 

Other  men  were  chipping  in  without  knowing 
what  it  was  all  about,  just  for  the  pleasure  of 
making  a  noise. 

"He's  not  got  much  guts  to  let  himself  be  talked 
to  like  that." 

"I  think  he's  quite  right,  I  do.  He's  getting 
tiresome,  that  cook  fellow.  The  meat  is  just  as 
much  ours  as  his." 

"Those  that  don't  belong  to  the  company  have 
nothing  to  do  but  shut  it  and  keep  it  shut,  and 
double  quick  too !   .    .    ." 

Summoned  by  this  rowdy  row,  Sergeant  Ri- 
cordeau,  who  was  shaving,  appeared  at  the  bay- 
window  in  the  loft  with  his  face  all  covered  with 
lather. 

"Won't  you  soon  have  done  with  your  row?     I 


Our  Lady  of  the  Rag-Pickers  227 

take  my  oath  that  if  you  once  make  me  come  down 
to  you  it  won't  be  for  nothing.  .  .  .  Here, 
there's  Lieutenant  Morache  coming  along.  I  hope 
you're  all  satisfied  now?" 

It  was  the  one  word  that  was  necessary:  the 
whole  crowd  shut  up  and  the  band  crumbled  away. 

In  the  quarter  of  beef  there  remained  a  huge 
knife,  planted  savagely  in  it  right  up  to  the  guard, 
with  the  mark  of  a  bloody  hand  imprinted  on  its 
wooden  haft. 


Into  the  shop  parlour  where  we  were  break- 
fasting, eight  of  us  squeezed  up-  about  a  round 
table,  the  drinkers  from  the  large  hall  that  was 
over-full  were  floating  in  and  out,  glass  in  hand. 
The  continuous  rolling  thunder  of  the  guns  was 
making  our  bottles  shake,  and  the  painted  plates 
dance  on  the  sideboard;  sometimes  a  more  than 
ordinary  violent  outburst  came  in  to  us  brutally 
and  drowned  the  voices. 

'  *  How  that  hammers ! ' ' 

**What,  is  it  to-morrow  that  we're  attacking? — 
Yes  or  no?" 

The  war,  the  attack,  the  hospital,  we  spoke  of 
nothing  else ;  and  when  we  forgot  it  for  a  moment 
to  talk  of  bygone  happiness,  of  Paris,  of  our  lost 
homes,  the  guns  came  back,  knocking,  battering 
at  the  door. 

At  the  bar,  in  a  regular  tumult,  the  comrades 
were  talking  endlessly  of  the  trench :  it  is  only  the 


228  Wooden  Crosses 

soldier  who  listens  unbored,  unwearied,  to  soldiers* 
yams.  Their  mouths  already  pursed  to  deliver 
the  traditional  answer,  "That's  just  like  me,  just 
fancy!  .  .  ."  They  were  listening  one  to  the 
other  without  taking  anything  in  and  thinking 
only  of  getting  in  their  own  tale. 

Up  till  it  was  time  for  the  evening  soup,  we 
loafed  around,  went  drinking,  talked,  managed  to 
tire  ourselves  out.  The  three  streets  of  the  village 
were  absolutely  chock-a-block  with  troops,  and 
on  the  highway  the  dusty  lorries  went  snoring  by, 
bringing  up  infantrymen  who,  as  they  passed, 
shouted  to  us  through  the  dust  the  number  of 
their  regiment. 

The  sky  of  a  crude  Reckitt's  blue  colour  was 
dotted  with  shrapnel  bursts,  whose  white  flock 
was  massed  like  those  fleecy  summer  sheep-clouds 
that  foretell  fine  weather.  In  the  thick  of  them 
light  and  sparkling,  turned  and  twisted  and 
dodged  an  aeroplane.  On  the  comers  of  tables, 
sitting  on  a  wheelbarrow  or  a  cart-shaft,  squatting 
down  under  their  tent  or  with  their  backs  against 
a  wall,  were  soldiers  writing.  In  a  meadow  a 
game  of  football  was  going  on;  with  loud  cries 
some  of  the  boys  were  following  the  game  astride 
on  polished  saddles,  while  getting  the  drivers  of 
the  Army  Service  Corps  to  cut  their  hair  for  them. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  village  the  little  streets 
were  deserted.  Everywhere  were  the  flowering 
elder-trees,  whose  sweet  and  gentle  perfume  smelt 
like  a  sedative  to  jangled  nerves. 


Our  Lady  of  the  Rag- Pickers  229 

"Sure  enough  this  is  no  weather  to  go  fighting 
in,"  sighed  Gilbert,  nibbling  at  a  stalk  of  aniseed. 

Lambert,  who  was  following  us  with  drooping 
head,  seemed  to  wake  up. 

"Weather  for  fighting  in!"  he  said,  losing  his 
temper.  "Have  you  been  reading  that  in  the 
Pele-Mtle?  ...  Ah!  All  the  Httle  rascals  that 
write  about  the  war  know  lots  of  good  jokes. 
...  To  die  in  the  sunshine,  that's  a  great 
business!  ...  I'd  just  like  to  see  one  of  them 
pegging  out,  with  his  mouth  wide  open  among  the 
barbed  wire,  to  ask  him  to  appreciate  the  land- 
scape! ..." 

And  wreaking  his  anger  on  a  tall  clump  of  cow- 
parsley,  which  he  mowed  down  with  a  flick  of  his 
switch,  he  grumbled  in  a  raging  fury: 

* '  Let  them  send  the  old  pilgrim,  since  he  wants 
to  avenge  his  sons." 

Slipping  from  leaf  to  leaf,  the  sunshine  dripped 
in  big  drops  on  to  the  road.  A  stream  flowed 
by  among  the  mallow  plants,  drawing  with  it 
long  dishevelled  weeds — Ophelia's  hair.  Among 
the  woods  some  of  the  boys  were  gathering  wild- 
flowers  before  fastening  down  their  letters. 

"Come,  don't  let  us  think  too  much,"  said  Gil- 
bert, shaking  himself  together.  .  .  .  "Let's  go  in 
here,  I  say,  they  seem  to  be  having  a  jolly  time." 

We  xjushed  in  through  the  door  of  the  cafe,  and 
as  soon  as  we  had  got  inside,  I  caught  sight  of 
Bouffioux  and  Fouillard  sitting  at  a  table  with 
empty  litres  before  them.     A  spree  had  recon- 


230  Wooden  Crosses 

died  them :  the  cook  apoplectic,  with  his  eyes  shin- 
ing bright;  the  other  pale  haggard,  and  glassy  of 
eye.  They  had  tossed  for  round  upon  round, 
and  then — a  drunkard's  sudden  idea — Fouillard 
had  made  a  proposal,  coughing  with  laughter. 

"I'll  toss  you  for  my  cross,  in  half  a  jiffy.  .  .  . 
I  saw  some  dandy  ones  at  the  carpenter's,  with  a 
plate,  just  like  an  officer's.   .    .    .  " 

Bouffioux  had  agreed:  he  had  lost.  He  had 
then  asked  for  his  revenge,  a  cross  for  a  pal  in  the 
squad.     He  had  lost  again. 

*'A11  the  same,  you'd  need  to  be  blind  drunk, 
.  .  ."  some  of  the  boys  had  growled.  **  That's 
not  a  thing  to  humbug  about.  ...  Go  and 
play  your  dirty  games  outside." 

The  pair,  braggarts  both,  had  then  set  to  work 
again  to  drink:  the  winners'  round,  then  '*the  last 
one,"  then  the  "last  of  the  last " ;  and  now,  full  up 
to  the  teeth,  their  mouths  gaping,  their  legs  giv- 
ing way,  they  remained  stupefied,  bovine,  chin  on 
table,  having  not  even  strength  enough  left  either 
to  drink  or  to  jabber. 

And  the  other  nodded  "yes  "  with  a  very  heavy 
head. 

"I've  won  off  you,"  repeated  Fouillard  stupidly. 

"Don't  let's  stay  here,  let's  get  out  of  it,"  said 
Lambert  to  us  sharply. 

And  we  went  out. 

All  day  long,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  have  been 
thinking  of  their  drunkard's  stake.     Now,  in  bed, 


Our  Lady  of  the  Rag- Pickers  231 

under  the  tent,  I  am  still  thinking  about  it.  .  .  . 
The  bombardment  has  slackened  off,  but  the  rising 
wind  brings  down  from  the  trench  the  rolling 
noises  of  rifle  fire.  One  side  of  the  tent  that  has 
remained  open  gives  towards  the  lines,  and  above 
and  beyond  the  black  woods,  you  can  now  and  then 
catch  sight  of  the  fleeting  dawn  of  the  rockets. 

Stretched  out  full  length  on  the  new  straw  that 
crackles  and  rustles  under  us,  we  are  listening, 
with  our  hearts  thrown  wide  open,  to  a  confused 
murmur  of  low  voices  and  songs.  In  the  shadows 
can  be  caught  glimpses  of  white  patches  swaying 
in  the  wind:  soldiers*  linen  hanging  out  to  dry. 
But  with  this  clear,  transparent  night,  these  songs, 
this  scattered  tenderness  and  emotion,  one  might 
fancy  white  dresses  hanging  back  a  little;  one 
might  dream  that  there  are  women  there,  quite 
close  to  us,  and  listening  to  us.  We  shouldn't 
speak  to  them,  indeed,  no :  only  for  their  presence, 
to  feel  that  they  are  there !   .    .    . 

One  feels  so  comfortable  under  the  caress  of  this 
soft  wind.  Languorous  voices  take  up  the  chorus, 
very  low,  and  hang  upon  the  words  of  love  so  as 
to  taste  them  more  fully: 

Ferme  tes  jolis  yeux, 
Car  les  heures  sont  breves 
Au  pays  merveilleux, 
Au  doux  pays,  du  rd-^-ve. 

The  voices  grow  more  and  more  sentimental, 
the  song  dies  away.   .    .    .     One  is  fain  to  see 


232  Wooden  Crosses 

nothing  further — the  soldiers,  nor  the  war.  .  .  . 
They  are  not  so  dull,  by  night,  our  pale-hued 
coats.  Would  you  not  like  to  have  a  dress  of  that 
colour  ? 

Lying  in  the  far  comer  of  the  tent,  Gilbert  is  re- 
peating verses,  exquisite  tendernesses  of  Samain's, 
which  the  others  are  listening  to  without  venturing 
to  stir,  their  eyes  sparkling  with  little  stars. 

All  our  minds  are  far,  ever  so  far  away:  Paris, 
the  village,  the  quiet  mall,  the  bed  with  its  em- 
broidered quilts,  or    even    the  great  bed  of  the 
provinces,  with  its  big  red  bellying  mound  that 
you  drive  down  with  a  blow  of  the  fist.     One's 
home!   .    .    .     The  memory  of  bygone  joys  melts 
I    in  the  mouth  like  a  delicious  sweetmeat,  and  our 
\    hearts  are  so  tender  that  you  can  make  love-songs 
\  come  trickling  out  of  them  if  you  squeeze  them  a 
little. 

Ferme  tes  jolis  yeux  .  .  . 

Suddenly  on  the  highroad  is  heard  the  rhythmic 
step  of  a  troop  on  the  march.  What  is  it?  .  .  . 
They  can  be  recognized  at  once  by  their  white 
armlets.  The  first  carry  on  their  shoulders  the 
stretchers  rolled  up;  those  who  follow  after  are 
pushing  in  front  of  them  light  little  carts  with 
two  wheels.  One  of  them  holds  a  lantern,  whose 
yellow  light  dances  about  him  like  a  dog  wild  with 
excitement.  The  regiment  of  the  great  silence  is 
going  on  its  way. 


Our  Lady  of  the  Rag-Pickers  233 

*'Come  on,"  breaks  out  an  embarrassed  voice, 
"you  can  let  us  have  another  one." 

* '  No,  no  humbug ;  I  don ' t  know  any  more.  .   .   . " 

Silence  drops  down.  .  .  .  And  yet  there 
hadn't  been  much,  only  a  murmur;  but  a  murmur 
was  enough  to  drown  all  the  noises  of  this  disturb- 
ing night.  Now  they  all  come  to  us:  the  op- 
pressed breathing  of  a  sleeper,  the  straw  crackling 
under  the  bodies  of  men  in  discomfort,  and  over 
there,  the  agonizing,  low  sounds  of  the  trench 
deep  in  its  struggle.  Silent,  and  yet  the  night  has 
changed  all  at  once — now  immense  and  grave  as 
a  dream  of  thirty  years. 

The  moon  comes  up  unhurried  and  placid,  be- 
hind a  clump  of  firs  that  frame  her  face  like  a 
mantilla.  Slowly  she  lays  down  upon  the  short  grass 
the  clean-cut  shadow  of  the  stakes  and  piled  arms, 
and  this  paints  strange  black  signs  over  that  beau- 
tiful field  dappled  with  moonlight.  A  carbine 
slung  from  the  muzzle  of  a  rifle  outlines  as  it  were 
two  strange  arms  that  I  look  at  vacantly. 

But,  all  at  once  my  heart  gives  a  sudden  bound, 
and  in  that  black  design  I  can  discern  a  cross,  a 
prophetic  cross  of  shadow  that  the  moon  has 
planted  over  the  long  body  of  Lambert  as  he  lies 
asleep. 


CHAPTER  XI 

VICTORY 

From  the  rear  the  regiments  for  the  attack  were 
coming  up  to  the  trenches,  in  Hne,  by  a  score  of 
tracks  full  to  bursting. 

*'Pass  the  word  there  to  get  on.'* 

"Get  on,  you  pack  of  swabs!"  repeated  furious 
voices. 

And  the  dismembered  column  would  set  off 
again  at  a  lumbering  trot,  with  a  clattering  of  mess- 
tins  and  implements.  Early  morning  had  dis- 
covered us  in  the  communication  trenches  in  which 
the  company,  one  of  the  latest  to  start,  had  been 
tramping  ever  since  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
incessantly  cut  through  by  stretcher-bearers,  held 
back  by  reliefs;  and  directly  it  was  day  the  Ger- 
man artillery  had  begun  to  fire.  The  shrapnel 
seemed  to  pursue  us,  going  forward  with  us,  and 
the  harassed  battalion  was  running  towards  the 
lines  under  a  zig-zigging  canopy  of  green  smoke. 

Guided  by  Morache,  who  was  at  his  wits'  end, 
and  had  now  lost  his  way,  we  were  going  on  just 
as  the  trench  took  us,  tracked  by  the  time-fuse 
shells.  Between  two  crashes  we  heard  the  voice 
Cruchet,  cold  and  precise  as  on  drill.   .    .    . 

234 


Victory  235 

"Well,  Morache?  .  .  .  Do  you  recognize 
where  you  are  now?" 

The  shells  were  following  us  up  as  though  they 
had  eyes.  We  were  going  on,  spHtting  off  this 
way  and  that,  retracing  our  way;  but  the  pack 
never  left  us  alone,  baying  enough  to  deafen  us, 
and  making  us  drunk  and  giddy  with  acrid  smoke 
and  fumes. 

At  every  flaming  burst  we  pitched  one  into  an- 
other, heads  and  legs  intermingled,  flattened  up 
against  the  wall,  as  though  inlaid  in  the  holes. 
The  shrapnel  was  bursting  low,  every  now  and  then 
lashing  the  trench  with  fragments,  and  cries 
sprang  up  from  all  those  close-cowering  bodies. 

"Hullo,  there!     I'm  winged." 

Dulled  and  stupefied,  we  were  striding  over 
bodies;  we  would  go  forward  twenty  paces,  push- 
ing one  another  on,  then  we  would  throw  ourselves 
down  on  hands  and  knees,  our  mouths  and  eyes 
twisted  by  a  spasm,  humping  our  backs  imder  the 
crashing  turmoil. 

"Well,  Morache,"  went  on  the  Captain,  "is 
that  the  right  way  over  there?  Ttt!  Ttt!  .  .  . 
You're  sure?" 

We  started  off  once  more,  dry-throated,  not 
knowing  where  we  were  making  for.  And  for  all 
that  there  was  no  losing  of  our  heads,  a  kind  of 
discipline  even  in  bewilderment:  the  mind  wav- 
ered, a  little  stunned  and  dizzy  as  though  coming 
out  of  some  infernal  forge,  but  lucid  in  spite  of  all; 
and  between  the  salvoes  orders  passed  along  as 


236  Wooden  Crosses 

though  nothing  had  happened,  methodically,  like 
a  foreman's  orders  transmitted  through  the  din  of 
a  factory. 

At  length,  all  at  once  the  barrage  lost  us.  Sud- 
denly there  was  a  great  calm,  and  we  then 
perceived  that  the  sun  was  up.  We  had  just  de- 
bouched on  a  sunk  road  with  thick  green  bushes 
clothing  the  steep  banks.  All  at  once  Sulphart 
dashed  forward,  ransacking  among  the  branches. 

"Hey,  boys!  .    .    .  there  are  blackberries  here." 


'  *  Don't  touch  me !  Don't  touch  me !  .  .  ."  re- 
peated the  wounded  man,  livid  with  pain,  all 
the  time  going  forward  down  the  communication 
trench. 

His  crushed  arms  hung  down  like  two  red  plaits 
of  hair.  Coming  up  to  us,  he  said,  in  the  same 
colourless  voice  in  which  there  was  not  a  thrill 
left  even  of  pain. 

**I  want  to  sit  down;  take  hold  of  me  by  the 
coat." 

Holding  him  up  by  the  collar  of  his  coat,  we 
settled  him  down  on  the  firing-step,  his  trunk 
rigid,  his  two  arms  of  bloody  porridge  only  holding 
to  his  body  by  the  lacerated  sleeves.  His  nose 
was  thin  and  pinched  to  sharpness,  as  if  death  had 
already  tried  to  choke  off  his  breath. 

"You  ought  to  make  haste  to  the  dressing- 
station,"  said  Lemoine  to  him,  seeing  the  two 
rivulets  of  blood  running  down. 


Victory  237 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to  it.  .  .  .  Light  me  a 
cigarette.  .  .  .  Put  it  into  my  mouth  for 
me." 

We  raised  him  up  again ;  he  thanked  us  with  his 
head,  and  started  off  with  a  mechanical  pace,  a 
comrade  going  in  front  of  him  to  ward  off  the 
massed  soldiers. 

"Make  way! — a  wounded  man.    .    .    ." 

The  whole  company  was  mustered  there  in  a 
mass,  a  great  living  buckler  of  casques  crowded 
together,  in  front  of  four  rude  ladders,  blanket 
rolled,  no  pack,  digging-tool  by  each  man's  side — 
"Gala  rig,"  Gilbert  had  said,  ragging. 

On  our  right,  squeezed  up  in  the  same  parallel,  a 
company  of  a  regiment  of  young  troops  had  just 
fixed  their  bayonets ;  they  were  to  go  over  with  us, 
in  the  first  wave.  All  the  saps,  all  the  trenches 
were  full,  and  in  feeling  ourselves  crowded  in  this 
way,  loins  pressing  into  loins,  by  hundreds,  by 
thousands,  we  were  conscious  of  a  brutal  con- 
fidence. Whether  bold  or  resigned,  one  was 
nothing  more  than  a  mere  grain  in  this  human 
mass.  The  Army,  on  that  morning,  had  in  it  the 
very  soul  of  victory. 

Some  of  the  boys,  eyes  shining,  cheeks  burning 
red,  were  talking  fast,  seized  by  a  kind  of  fever. 
Others  remained  mute,  quite  pale,  and  with  a  chin 
that  quivered  just  a  little. 

Above  the  sandbags  we  gazed  at  the  German 
lines,  buried  under  a  plume  of  smoke  in  which 
lightnings   crackled    and   flashed;   further   away 


238  Wooden  Crosses 

still,  in  the  plain,  three  villages  seemed  to  be  on 
fire,  and  our  artillery  kept  on  firing  continuously, 
in  a  jetting,  spurting  thunder  in  which  were  con- 
founded the  departure  and  the  landing  of  the 
shells.  The  fields  rocked  under  this  fury,  and 
against  my  elbow  I  could  feel  the  trench  shivering 
and  crumbling. 

At  every  moment  Gilbert  was  looking  at  his 
watch.  This  agonizing  waiting  made  his  heart 
contract  and  thrill;  he  would  fain  have  heard  the 
signal  to  start  at  once  and  make  an  end.  He 
thought  aloud : 

"They  are  prolonging  the  pleasure." 
On  the  parapet,  between  the  tufts  of  grass,  two 
creatures  were  fighting;  a  big  red-brown  beetle 
with  a  thick  cuirass,  and  blue  insect  with  slender 
fine  antennae.  Gilbert  was  eyeing  them,  and  when 
the  beetle  was  on  the  point  of  crushing  the  other, 
he  turned  it  over  on  its  back  with  the  tip  of  one 
finger.  From  his  forehead  fell  a  drop  of  sweat  on 
the  little  blue  fellow,  who  shook  his  gaily  bedizened 
wings. 

"Attention!  It  is  just  on  the  hour,"  warned 
an  officer  on  our  right. 

Nearer  still,  Cruchet  gave  the  order : 
" Fix  bayonets.  .  .  .  Grenadiers  at  the  head." 
A  steely  thrill  ran  down  the  whole  length  of  the 
trench.  Leaning  forward,  Gilbert  was  still  observ- 
ing his  insects,  and  not  listening  to  the  beating  of 
his  heart.  The  beetle  shook  his  heavy  carapace, 
but  the  other  had  seized  him  between  his  long 


Victory  239 

antennae,  and  was  holding  on  tight,  did  not 
slacken  his  grip. 

Very  quickly  Cruchet  was  tightening  his  chin- 
strap.  Standing  on  the  lowest  step  of  a  sandbag 
staircase,  he  dominated  all  of  us.     He  looked  at  us. 

''Now,  boys.  ...  Ttt!  Ttt!  .  .  .  It's 
for  France,  isn't  it,  eh?  .  .  .  A  good  attack. 
.    .    .     We  are  going  to  take  that.   .    .    ." 

Whether  it  was  emotion  or  no,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  his  voice  was  not  so  dry,  not  so  trenchant 
as  usual.  As  a  sudden  revelation  one  understood 
the  word — a  chief.  We  tightened  up  our  belts, 
we  thrust  back  the  tool  that  beat  against  the  thigh. 
At  the  foot  of  a  ladder,  Berthier  was  ready  to  go 
over.  Turning  his  head,  he  saw  Morache  with 
perturbed  countenance. 

** After  you,  Lieutenant,"  he  said  in  true  mili- 
tary fashion,  falling  back  a  pace. 

The  other,  failing,  saw  a  pretext. 

*'What?"  he  twittered.  .  .  .  "Are  you  afraid 
to  be  the  first  man  over  the  top?" 

Without  saying  a  word,  the  sous-Lieutenant 
turned  again  and  set  his  foot  once  more  on  the 
rung.  From  behind  one  saw  merely  the  shrug  of 
his  shoulders. 

''Morache  puncturing,"  cried  out  Vieuble,  in 
the  thick  of  the  noise. 

The  Lieutenant  had  perhaps  heard,  but  he  never 
stirred  a  muscle.  Rising  from  out  of  that  mass  of 
men  bristling  with  bayonets,  the  vagabondish  voice 
went  on : 


240  Wooden  Crosses 

**It*s  not  enough  this  time  to  have  lots  of  chat. 
.  .  .  It's  a  case  of  having  to  go  into  it.  .  .  . 
That's  a  harder  job  than  chucking  poor  beggars 
into  clink.    .    .    .     We're  all  equal  at  this  trick. " 

Nothing  more  was  to  be  heard  but  the  mocking 
voice  under  the  guns,  and  the  boys  laughed,  with 
no  trace  of  ill-feeling,  as  though  those  words  had 
eased  them. 

The  strong  bodies  ready  to  dash  forward  were 
swaying,  already  knocking  on  the  parapet  like  an 
ebbing  tide. 

In  shrill  spurts  the  seventy -fives  were  whistling, 
and  at  the  same  instant  the  deep  growling  of  the 
heavy  artillery  seemed  to  fall  silent  or  to  move 
away. 

"Are  we  ready?"  asked  Cruchet,  in  a  louder 
voice. 

Our  hearts  leaped  furiously,  or  one  single  heart 
for  that  armed  crowd. 

'  *  You  really  have  my  home  address  ? ' '  said  Sul- 
phart  once  again  to  Gilbert,  in  a  broken  voice,  his 
emotion  running  his  words  into  one  another. 

Look,  the  gold  beetle  moved  no  more,  the  in- 
sect was  winning  the  fight.  .  .  .  Oh!  that 
powder,  what  a  foul,  acrid  stench!  ...  A 
clamour  rose  along  by  the  right,  cries  or  a  song: 
'  *  The  Zouaves  are  over ! "  A  gust  of  hundred-and- 
fives  exploded,  five  cymbal  clashes.   .    .    . 

'*En  avant  the  third!"  cried  the  Captain. 

''Enavantr' 

Cries,  a  scrimmage,  a  man  who  falls  back  swear- 


Victory  241 

ing,  rifles  catching  in  one  another.  .  .  .  With 
temples  humming  we  scramble  on  to  the  para- 
pet, then  straighten  ourselves,  our  legs  a  trifle 
flabby.  We  look  at  the  immense  plain,  the  naked 
plain.    '  *  En  avant  I ' '  We  are  over,  we  are  running. 

A  machine  gun,  only  one,  had  begun  to  cough. 
Reawakened  to  madness,  the  German  artillery 
was  battering  everywhere. 

Already  the  chain  of  men  was  taking  shape, 
slender  silhouettes  with  sloping  rifles,  and  was 
going  forward  with  a  regular,  even  trot,  faces 
towards  the  dumb  trenches.  On  the  left,  bugles 
in  front,  a  battalion  was  charging  with  loud  cries. 

Left  alone,  his  sabre  in  his  hand,  a  Commandant 
was  driving  on  the  last  squads  of  the  youngest 
soldiers,  who  were  hesitating  before  the  barrage. 

"Come  on!  .  .  .  Hurry  up!  Out  of  it!  Out 
of  it!" 

A  handful  of  lads  mounted.  In  front  of  them, 
like  a  cloud  of  fire-damp,  a  timed  shell  exploded :  a 
red  eruption,  a  swarming  volley  of  splinters.  .  .  . 
A  body  chopped  to  pieces  bespattered  the  sap.  In 
the  smoke  voices  groaned  aloud. 

''Come  on!  There's  no  danger  now.  .  .  . 
Out  of  it!" 

Another  section,  all  trembling,  scaled  the  sand- 
bags that  rolled  from  under  them,  but  a  storm  of 
fire  harrowed  up  the  field.  They  ebbed  back 
again.   .    .    . 

They  stormed  forward  again,  squad  by  squad, 
knowing  nothing  more,  haggard.  But  at  every 
16 


242  Wooden  Crosses 

endeavour  the  fire  flung  them  back  at  one  stroke, 
beaten  down  into  their  hole.  Every  time  a  salvo 
plunged  straight  on  to  them. 

"Out  of  it,  God's  truth!" 

Their  poor  wave  beat  more  and  more  feebly 
against  the  wall  they  dared  no  longer  overpass. 
.    .    .     But  no,  they  could  not  now.   .    .    . 

The  Commandant  climbed  up  at  a  single  leap. 

''En  avant,  pack  of  skulkers!'* 

A  little  cadet  was  banging  them  in  the  back, 
forcing  them  to  get  over,  crying  and  shouting  in  a 
voice  like  a  girl.  Staggering,  the  living  holocaust 
appeared,  driven  by  his  fists,  and  in  the  face  of 
death  had,  as  it  were,  a  supreme  shudder,  a  last 
recoil. 

"That's  the  style!  .  .  .  En  avant!''  cried  \he 
girl's  voice. 

They  rushed  through  the  passage  in  the  wire, 
scattered,  dashed  straight  into  the  wall  of  smoke. 
...     It  was  all  over,  the  barrage  was  passed. 

Dotted  all  about  the  fields,  the  battalions  were 
running,  and  somebody  out  beyond  the  first  lines 
was  waving  a  pennon :  the  village  was  taken. 


Walls  tumbled  down,  gaping  fagades,  heaps  of 
tiles  and  rubble,  roofs  fallen  in  all  in  one  piece, 
rigid  stiff  legs  sticking  up  out  of  the  ruins.  .  .  . 
The  street  could  just  be  divined  by  twisted  rail- 
ings here  and  there  to  be  seen  under  the  lumps 
of  broken  stone.     We  were  running  from  ruin  to 


Victory  243 

ruin,  sidling  along  by  pieces  of  walls,  firing  in  front 
of  us,  riddling  empty  cellars  with  hand-grenades. 
Everybody  was  shouting.   .    .    . 

The  guns  were  thundering  less  heavily  but 
through  the  ventholes  machine  guns  were  simply 
sweeping  the  village  like  scythes.  Men  were 
going  down,  doubled  up  as  though  borne  down  by 
the  weight  of  their  heads.  Others  were  spinning 
roimd  Hke  a  teetotum,  their  arms  straight  out  like 
a  cross,  and  falling  face  to  the  sky,  their  legs  bent 
in  two.  We  hardly  noticed  them  even:  we  were 
running  on. 

Someone  all  white  with  plaster  called  out  to 
Gilbert: 

^'Lambert  is  killed!" 

Aroimd  a  well,  men  were  fighting  with  rifle  butts, 
with  fists,  or  with  knives :  a  brawl  in  the  midst  of 
the  battle.  Vieuble  with  one  stroke  butted  a  Ger- 
man clean  over  the  curb  of  the  well,  and  we  could 
see  his  cap  fly  off,  a  grey  cap  with  a  crimson  band. 
All  that  was  engraved  on  the  mind  with  accurate 
detail,  brutally,  without  rousing  any  feeling: 
shouts  of  men  being  killed,  explosions,  the  bark  of 
hand-grenades,  comrades  going  down.  Without 
knowing  where  we  were  making  for,  one  following 
another  blindly,  we  charged  straight  before 
us.    .    .    . 

Flattening  themselves  out,  there  were  some 
laggards  hiding  behind  a  wall:  "With  us,  you 
dirty  dogs!"  Gilbert  yelled  to  them. 

Some  Boches  passed  by  us,  running,  shorn  of 


244  Wooden  Crosses 

their  equipment,  their  hands  high  in  the  air, 
scampering  towards  our  lines.  Sitting  at  the  en- 
trance of  a  cellar,  another  was  sponging  away  with 
a  filthy  handkerchief  the  blood  that  was  trickHng 
from  his  forehead ;  with  his  left  hand  he  made  us  a 
salutation. 

In  spite  of  the  crackling  of  the  firing,  we  could 
hear  the  long  panting  rattle  of  the  saucepans  shat- 
tering into  fragments  in  the  middle  of  the  village, 
tearing  up  a  thick  cloud  of  dust  and  smoke,  and 
hunching  our  backs,  we  would  throw  ourselves 
against  the  walls. 

In  the  flying  dust  and  the  debris  of  plaster,  we 
had  assumed  the  neutral  colour  of  this  cemetery 
of  all  things.  Nothing  there  was  alive,  shapely, 
fashioned;  a  whirl  of  pounded  debris,  a  great  work- 
yard  of  catastrophe  where  everything  was  con- 
founded in  confusion :  dead  bodies  emerging  from 
the  fallen  rubbish,  stones  groimd  to  powder, 
tatters  of  cloth,  the  smashed  bits  of  household 
furnishings,  soldiers'  packs — all  that  brought  to 
one  common  denominator,  annihilated,  the  dead 
men  not  more  tragic  than  the  pebbles. 

Exhausted,  panting,  out  of  breath,  we  were 
running  no  longer.  A  road  cut  through  the  ruins, 
and  an  invisible  machine  gun  was  riddling  it  with 
bullets,  raising  a  little  cloud  of  dust  in  the  surface 
of  the  ground.  "All  into  the  trench!"  cried  an 
adjutant. 

Without  looking,  we  all  leaped  in,  as  we 
touched    this    flabby    flooring    with    our    feet. 


Victory  245 

human  disgust  threw  me  backwards,  appalled.  It 
was  a  dreadful  squalid  mass,  a  monstrous  disin- 
terring of  waxy  Bavarians  on  top  of  others  already 
black,  whose  wrenched  and  twisted  mouths  ex- 
haled a  breath  of  corruption,  a  whole  accumula- 
tion of  slashed  and  mangled  flesh,  with  corpses 
that  you  might  have  fancied  unscrewed,  knocked 
awry,  the  feet  and  knees  twisted  completely  round; 
and  to  watch  over  them  all,  one  single  dead  body 
remaining  on  his  feet,  propped  up  with  his  back 
against  the  face  of  the  trench,  and  buttressed  by 
a  monster  with  no  head.  The  first  of  our  file  did 
not  dare  to  go  forward  over  this  charnel-heap,  we 
felt  a  kind  of  almost  religious  fear  to  walk  over 
those  dead  bodies,  to  crunch  under  our  feet  these 
faces  of  what  had  been  men.  For  all  that,  hunted 
by  the  machine  guns,  the  last  ranks  leaped  in,  and 
that  common  burying  ditch  seemed  to  over-flow. 

"Goon,  God's  truth!" 

Still  we  hesitated  to  trample  upon  that  pave- 
ment that  squelched  at  every  step;  then  thrust 
forward  by  the  others,  we  went  on  without  looking, 
splashing,  paddling  in  Death.  .  .  .  By  some 
demoniac  caprice  he  had  spared  nothing  save  in- 
animate things:  along  ten  metres  of  trench,  un- 
touched in  their  little  niches,  there  were  ranged 
spiked  helmets,  each  clad  in  a  cloth  cover.  Some 
of  the  boys  took  possession  of  them;  others  got 
hold  of  satchels,  water-bottles. 

"Look,  a  gorgeous  pair  of  pumps!"  bellowed 
Sulphart,  brandishing  two  yellow  boots. 


246  Wooden  Crosses 

At  the  exit  of  the  trench  a  squatting  sergeant 
was  shouting,  "To  the  left,  in  skirmishing  order! 
To  the  left!"  and  our  file  set  off  again,  running 
along  a  little  road  with  a  ditch  flanking  it.  Fur- 
ther out,  in  the  fields,  we  saw  nothing  but  a  wire 
system  half  hidden  by  weeds.  .  .  .  And  not  a 
trench,  not  a  German,  not  a  single  shot. 

Soon,  as  there  was  no  firing,  our  trot  slowed  up, 
and  we  fell  into  little  groups ;  but  a  salvo  of  shrap- 
nel thundered  out,  planting  all  along  the  road  its 
line  of  vaporous  trees,  and  when  we  looked  again 
the  road  was  empty.  Everybody  had  gone  to 
ground  in  the  ditch  or  behind  pieces  of  wall.  All 
in  a  bunch,  we  had  crowded  together  in  a  narrow 
channel  dug  at  the  foot  of  a  mud  wall.  Nervously 
we  pulled  round  the  nape  of  our  neck  the  padding 
of  our  tightly  rolled  blankets,  and  we  waited. 
.  .  .  The  shells  raged  for  a  moment,  eighty- 
eights  that  passed  so  low,  so  close,  that  we  were 
astonished  not  to  see  the  grass  mown  away  in  front 
of  us,  and  we  buried  our  heads  in  our  two  hands. 
Then  the  rambling  firing  lengthened  the  range, 
continuing  its  hide-and-seek  in  the  village.  All 
along  the  road  the  file  of  men  stood  upright,  but 
without  quitting  their  individual  shelters. 

''Are  we  to  stay  where  we  are?"  asked  a  soldier 
who  seemed  well  buried  in  a  huge  burrow. 

**No,  we're  going  on  still,"  shouted  Ricordeau 
to  us,  passing  by  at  a  run. 

*'It's  not  worth  while;  the  other  village  over 
there  has  been  taken." 


Victory  247 

*' What's  it  called,  that  village?"— Nobody 
knew. 

"The  stunt  has  slipped  up,"  wheezed  Fouillard, 
squeezed  up  against  me.  "We'll  be  having  to  go 
back." 

Some  were  crying  out,  * '  You  can  see  the  Legion 
still  advancing  " ;  and  others :  '  *  Look  out !  there  are 
the  Boches  attacking." 

"We'll  be  taken  in  flank!" 

"You're  drunk!    That's  our  own  trenches." 

The  bombardment  made  them  quiet  for  a 
moment.  Shrivelled  and  parched,  we  emptied 
the  water-bottles  between  two  gusts  of  fire. 

"Captain!     Here  they  are,  Captain.    .    .    ." 

Cruchet  had  just  let  himself  slide  down  from  the 
top  of  the  bank,  bringing  down  bits  of  mortar  and 
pebbles  with  him.  Berthier  was  running  at  his 
heels,  and  they  were  going  from  hole  to  hole, 
throwing  themselves  flat  on  their  faces  when  a 
shell  roared  over.     The  Captain  called  out : 

"You  are  brave  old  pigs!  We're  just  going  to 
take  their  third  line.    .    .    ." 

"  Look  out  for  the  signal  on  the  right.    .    .    . " 

He  wore  a  new  visage,  ruddy  and  sweaty,  his 
mouth  split  in  a  great  soundless  laugh.  Still 
as  he  ran  he  repeated : 

"Mind  the  signal  on  the  right.  .  .  .  The 
right.    ..." 

A  crash,  and  I  heard  nothing  more.  ...  It 
was  like  the  stroke  of  a  club  that  knocked  us  all 
over,  a  shock  that  overwhelms  you,  a  blast  that 


248  Wooden  Crosses 

flings  you  down.  .  .  .  And  the  thick,  thick 
cloud,  the  blackness  of  night.  .  .  .  Ten  differ- 
ent thoughts  tumbling  together:  We  are  killed! 
I  am  blinded  1    We  are  buried !      Then  cries .... 

"Help!  quick!  quick   ..." 

In  the  smoke  there  are  wounded  men  bolting. 
Fouillard  was  lying  before  me,  his  head  in  a  red 
puddle,  and  his  back  working  convulsively  as  if  he 
was  sobbing.  It  was  his  blood  he  was  shedding 
like  tears. 

Again  a  blast  darted  on  us.   .    .    . 

I  had  picked  myself  up,  my  head  between  my 
knees,  my  body  rolled  into  a  ball,  my  teeth 
clenched.  My  face  screwed  up,  my  eyes  wrinkled 
so  as  to  be  half  shut,  I  was  waiting.  .  .  .  The 
shells  followed  one  another;  precipitate,  hurried: 
but  you  couldn't  hear  them  come,  it  was  too  near, 
it  was  too  much.  At  every  detonation  your  heart, 
torn  from  its  place,  makes  a  tremendous 
leap;  your  head,  your  entrails  jump.  You  long 
to  be  tiny,  more  tiny  still;  every  separate  bit  of 
you  is  afraid,  your  limbs  shrink  on  themselves; 
your  head,  buzzing  and  completely  empty,  is  fain 
to  bury  itself  anywhere — you  are  afraid,  in  short, 
desperately,  cruelly  afraid.  .  .  .  Under  this 
thundering  death  you  are  no  more  than  a  quiver- 
ing heap,  a  waiting  ear,  a  heart  that  fears.    .    .    . 

Between  each  salvo  ten  seconds  would  go  by — 
ten  seconds  to  live,  ten  enormous  seconds  that 
held  the  whole  of  happiness;  and  I  looked  at 
Fouillard,  who  now  moved  no  longer.     Lying  on 


Victory  249 

his  side,  his  face  turned  purple,  his  neck  was  gap- 
ing, his  throat  cut  as  the  throats  of  cattle  are 
cut. 

The  slinking  smoke  masked  the  road,  but  one 
had  no  wish  to  see  anything,  one  simply  listened, 
wild  with  horror.  Thudding  all  round  like  a 
pickaxe,  the  shells  pelted  us  with  bits  of  stone,  and 
we  remained  piled  on  one  another  in  our  rut,  two 
living  men  and  one  dead. 

Suddenly,  without  rhyme  or  reason,  the  firing 
came  to  a  stop.  Huge  shells  were  still  falling  on 
the  ruins,  sending  up  black  geysers;  but  that  was 
further  off,  they  were  for  others.  In  our  shaken 
heads  that  moment  of  peace  was  imperial  luxury. 
I  turned  round,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  bank  I  saw 
Berthier  stooping  above  a  body  lying  stretched 
out.     Who? 

All  along  the  road  the  boys  were  picking  them- 
selves up.     ' '  Grenadiers ! ' '  called  a  voice. 

Then  coming  right  from  the  right,  an  order 
reached  us,  called  out  from  hole  to  hole. 

"The  Colonel  asks  who  is  in  command  on  the 
left." 

"Pass  the  word.  .  .  .  The  Colonel  asks  who 
is  commanding  on  the  left.   .    .    .  '* 

I  saw  Berthier  gently  lay  back  the  head  of  the 
dead  man  on  the  grass.  He  stood  up,  pale  and 
haggard,  and  he  called: 

"Sous-Lieutenant  Berthier,  of  the  third.  .  .  . 
Pass  the  word.   .    .    ." 


250  Wooden  Crosses 

Dragging  it  by  the  coat,  Gilbert  pulled  the  dead 
body  up  to  the  lip  of  the  big  funnel-hole  into  which 
we  had  thrown  ourselves.  For  a  long  time  now 
dead  men  no  longer  touched  him  with  fear.  Even 
so,  he  did  not  dare  to  take  it  by  the  hand,  that 
poor  shrivelled  hand,  yellow  and  muddy,  and  he 
avoided  the  quenched  look  of  its  yellow  eyes. 

"We  need  still  three — four  more  like  that,"  said 
Lemoine.  ''That  would  make  a  decent  parapet 
for  us  with  a  little  earth  over  all." 

Only  a  moment  ago  the  poor  lad  was  running 
side  by  side  with  us,  his  eyes  riveted,  fixed  with 
agony  of  stress,  full  on  the  German  trench  from 
which  were  spurting  the  short,  straight,  stabbing 
flames  of  the  mausers.  Then  gusts  of  shells  had 
torn  gaps  in  the  company,  the  machine  guns  had 
mown  down  men  in  whole  lines,  and  of  the  palpi- 
tating band  that  charged,  tragic  and  silent,  there 
remained  now  only  these  twenty  cowering  men, 
these  wounded  dragging  themselves  along,  groan- 
ing and  moaning,  and  all  these  dead.   .    .    . 

Gilbert  between  two  explosions  had  heard  the 
comrade  exclaim:  "Ah!  that's  the  end!"  The 
wounded  man  had  still  dragged  himself  on  for  a 
few  metres,  like  a  creature  that  has  been  run  over 
and  he  died  there,  in  a  sob.  Was  it  sad?  Hardly. 
...  In  that  poor  field  that  had  all  the  appear- 
ance of  waste  ground,  he  made  just  one  corpse 
more,  one  more  blue  sleeper  that  would  be  buried 
after  the  attack,  if  it  was  possible.  A  few  paces 
away  under  a  chalky  mound  there  were  Boches 


Victory  251 

interred :  their  cross  would  do  for  our  dead,  a  grey 
cap  on  one  arm,  a  blue  cap  on  the  other. 

*'Now  then,  what  are  we  going  to  do?"  asked 
Hamel,  whose  torn  sleeve  was  dropping  a  little 
blood.  *' Don't  you  see  they're  leaving  us  in  the 
lurch?" 

"But  no,"  said  Gilbert.  "The  second  battal- 
ion is  certainly  coming  over,  but  we  must  wait 
till  the  artillery  prepares  the  way." 

"And  if  they  fire  short,  that  will  still  be  for  our 
mugs." 

Hidden  in  the  long  grass  and  weeds,  the  German 
trench  was  hardly  to  be  distinguished  behind  the 
barbed  cobweb  of  iron.  The  Germans  were  no 
longer  firing,  and  even  their  big  guns  were  silent. 
Only  a  few  two-hundred-and-tens  were  going  over 
out  of  breath  at  a  great  height,  with  the  gurgle  of 
an  emptying  bottle,  and  would  fall  on  the  village, 
wreathing  the  ruins  with  a  heavy  cloud  of  smoke 
like  a  factory. 

Lying  on  the  edge  of  our  fimnel,  a  few  soldiers 
were  watching,  their  eyes  on  a  level  with  the  grass; 
the  others  were  arguing,  piled  up  in  the  hole. 

"Do  you  think  they'll  patch  up  again  to  take 
their  third  line?" 

"Very  likely.  Unless  they  dig  a  trench  through 
here." 

'  *  No  mistake,  it's  not  with  all  the  poilus  that  are 
left  that  they  can  hope  to  attack." 

"I'm  perishing  of  thirst.  Haven't  you  got  a 
drop  left  in  your  bottle?'* 


252  Wooden  Crosses 

"No.  .  .  .  Look  how  many  of  the  boys  have 
gone  down  since  we  left  the  village." 

There  were  dead  men  everywhere:  hanging  in 
the  iron  brambles,  knocked  over  in  the  grass,  piled 
up  in  the  shell-holes.  Here  blue  overcoats,  there 
grey-backs.  Some  were  horrible  to  see,  their 
swollen  faces  already  as  though  covered  with  a 
thick  mask  of  grey  felt.  Others  were  black  as 
coals,  their  eye-sockets  already  empty :  those  were 
the  fruits  of  the  early  attacks.  You  looked  on 
them  without  emotion,  without  disgust,  and  when 
you  read  an  unfamiliar  number  on  the  collar  of  a 
coat,  you  merely  said  to  your  neighbours:  "I 
say,  I  never  knew  their  regiment  had  done  its  bit." 

A  few  paces  from  the  funnel  an  officer  was  lying 
on  his  side,  his  coat  open,  and  in  his  long  fingers  he 
held  his  first-aid  dressing  that  he  had  never  been 
able  to  unroll. 

"We  ought  to  try  and  haul  him  up  to  here,"  said 
Lemoine,  who  still  clung  to  his  idea,  "that  would 
make  one  more  for  the  parapet.  And  with  that 
Boche  out  there  a  bit  further  on.   .    .    . " 

' '  You're  off  your  head, ' '  growled  Hamel.  ' '  You 
want  to  get  us  taped  off,  piling  them  all  up  in 
front." 

"The  fellows  in  the  other  holes  have  managed 
to  put  up  parapets  for  themselves  with  them." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  at  intervals  all  along  the 
ridge  there  were  men  down  and  dodging  that  you 
might  have  taken  for  bunches  of  dead.  Lying 
flat  behind  the  smallest  pimple  of  earth,  cowered 


Victory  253 

down  in  the  smallest  holes,  they  were  toiHng  al- 
most without  a  movement,  scratching  at  the  earth 
with  their  little  entrenching  tool,  and  patiently, 
with  infinite  pains,  they  were  erecting  in  front 
of  them  Httle  hillocks,  mole-heaps  that  a  breath 
would  have  flung  to  the  winds. 

**Our  hole  is  deeper,  we  are  in  less  danger," 
observed  Gilbert. 

''Aye,  but  when  they  have  once  got  ranged  on 
to  the  ridge,  what  are  we  going  to  have  handed 
to  us?" 

At  that  moment  the  Boche  artillery  awoke.  We 
heard  a  few  shells  arrive,  time-fused  shrapnel, 
that  burst  far  too  high  up  in  a  black  fleecy  cloud ; 
then  when  they  had  got  the  range  the  bombard- 
ment started.  The  first  shells  fell  comfortably 
far  off,  on  the  left;  then  the  storm  came  nearer, 
following  the  ridge;  and  suddenly,  all  at  once, 
four  quick  reports,  four  spurts  of  steamy  smoke, 
four  explosions.  .  .  .  The  salvo  had  landed 
squarely  in  front  of  our  funnel,  and  a  thick  cloud, 
stinking  of  powder,  filled  the  hole.  .  .  .  Our 
bodies  curled  into  a  ball,  we  had  thrown  ourselves 
one  against  the  other,  everyone  trying  to  burrow 
underneath  the  mingled  mass  of  legs.  Gilbert 
instinctively  hid  his  head  under  his  bended  arm, 
like  a  frightened  child.  A  rain  of  earth  fell  down. 
.  .  .  Already  the  second  salvo  was  arriving, 
thudding  all  round  us,  with  furious  blows  to  the 
right,  to  the  left.  Then  suddenly  there  was  some- 
thing  absolutely   brutish,    one  knew  not   what, 


254  Wooden  Crosses 

terrific,  that  one  might  imagine  had  burst  out 
from  oneself. 

The  shell  must  have  burst  full  on  the  edge  of 
the  funnel.  Two  men  moved  no  more,  sliding  to 
the  bottom  of  the  hole.  Wounded  men,  driven 
crazy,  were  running  away,  their  faces  bloody, 
their  hands  red.  Those  who  remained  hardly 
even  looked  at  them,  inlaid  into  the  earth,  head 
pulled  down  into  shoulders,  waiting  the  supreme 
stroke.  But  suddenly  the  range  lengthened: 
they  were  sweeping  on  the  right.  Every  head 
was  raised.  Oh!  that  unique  moment  of  happi- 
ness, when  death  has  passed  farther  on. 

Gilbert  threw  an  eye  into  the  plain.  Were  not 
the  Boches  coming  over?  No,  .  .  .  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen.  Not  till  after  did  he  look  at 
the  two  comrades  whose  half-opened  mouths 
seemed  to  be  speaking  to  heaven. 

"We  can't  leave  them  there  to  be  tramped 
over,"  proposed  Lemoine,  "let  us  put  them  on  th^ 
edge." 

Two  comrades  took  hold  of  the  first  one,  making 
their  hands  thick  and  sticky  with  coagulated 
blood,  and  hoisted  him  up  on  to  the  edge  of  the 
funnel.  Gilbert  turned  the  face  towards  the 
enemy  so  that  he  would  not  see  it.  The  other 
body  was  heavier,  and  he  had  to  give  them  a 
hand,  holding  up  the  dead  man's  head  that  hung 
down  and  refused  to  stay  in  place. 

"Like  that,"  said  Lemoine  with  satisfaction, 
"one  has  a  decent  parapet  already.   .    .    .     Poor 


Victory  255 

beggars!  if  they  had  thought  of  such  a  thing 
just  now,  .  .  .  And  that's  just  a  fellow  that 
I've  got  the  home  address  of.  .    .    .     Lookout!" 

It  was  all  beginning  over  again,  eighty-eights 
this  time,  imder  which  we  flattened  ourselves 
down,  our  faces  crushed  into  the  dry  earth.  They 
were  coming  over  in  batches  of  five,  so  quickly 
that  the  report  of  their  starting  and  the  explosion 
shocked  together. 

In  the  field  the  wounded  were  running,  and  the 
shell  splinters  mowed  down  those  who  had  not 
gone  out  of  reach.  But  on  the  other  side  of  the 
network  of  wire  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen, 
always  the  same  nothing.  It  was  a  battle  with- 
out enemies,  death  without  combat.  From  early 
morning  when  we  had  started  fighting,  we  had 
not  seen  twenty  Germans.  Dead  men,  nothing 
but  dead  men. 

With  our  faces  screwed  up,  our  fists  clenched, 
and  our  jaws  tight  set,  we  were  counting  the 
shells.  Little  by  little  the  head  empties,  though 
all  the  while  seeming  to  grow  heavier.  But  why 
do  we  remain  so  calm  despite  it  all?  We  are 
watching,  we  are  being  wary,  but  our  hearts  beat 
no  quicker,  and  we  look  about  us  without  fever, 
with  no  astonishment.  Nothing  now  can  be  heard 
but  these  hellish  explosions  that  tear  your  breast 
asunder.  They  fire,  fire,  fire.  .  .  .  We  feel 
our  legs  powerless,  our  hands  cold,  our  foreheads 
burning.     Is  that  it?     Is  this  fear? 

Another  body  was  lying  in  the  bottom  of  the 


256  Wooden  Crosses 

hole.  That  one  had  not  died  on  the  spot.  He 
had  writhed  and  twisted  for  an  interminable 
moment,  breathing  hoarse  and  loud,  livid.  Now 
he  stirred  no  longer. 

"Are  we  going  to  put  him  up  on  top  too?" 
asked  Lemoine,  his  head  sheltered  behind  his  bent 
arm. 

''Waiting  till  it's  our  own  turn,"  repHed  Hamel. 

We  looked  at  one  another  in  a  sort  of  vague, 
confused  agony.  Which  of  us  would  presently  be 
hoisted  up  there  aloft,  in  a  moment,  to  enlarge 
the  wall  of  the  dead? 

Painfully  we  fetched  up  the  last  one  from  the 
common  grave,  and  his  mutilated  body  marked 
the  flank  of  the  funnel  with  a  brown  furrow. 

As  a  thunderstorm  dies  away,  so  the  cannonade 
had  slackened  off,  and  from  every  hole  uneasy 
heads  were  peering  out.  Were  they  going  to 
attack?  An  officer  showed  himself  behind  a 
hillock. 

"Stick  it,  boys!"  he  shouted.     "Stick  it!  .   .   .  " 

At  the  same  instant,  a  few  paces  away,  a  voice 
warned  us. 

* '  Look  out !  there  they  are ! ' ' 

They  had  just  sprung  up,  barely  a  round  hun- 
dred of  them,  out  of  a  little  scrap  of  wood  about 
two  hundred  metres  from  the  ridge.  Immediately 
another  group  showed  itself,  come  from  nobody 
knew  where;  then  another  still,  that  hurled  itself 
forward  shouting — and  the  lines  of  skirmishers 
deployed. 


Victory  257 

"The  Boches!  Fire!  Fire!  ....  Aim 
low.   ..." 

Everybody  was  shouting,  orders  came  up  from 
every  hole,  and  all  along  the  whole  line  of  the 
ridge  the  fusillade  crackled  up  and  increased. 
Suddenly  we  saw  nothing  more.  Had  they  lain 
down?    Had  we  brought  them  down? 

A  minute  after,  the  bombardment  resumed,  more 
brutal,  more  delicately  accurate  than  ever.  Be- 
tween the  gusts  of  fire  we  could  see  the  wounded 
clearing  out.  Running  or  dragging  themselves 
along,  they  were  trying  to  get  to  a  little  leafy 
bank  that  bordered  the  great  field. 

"They're  taking  cover  in  the  Boche  trench," 
cried  a  boy  of  the  191 5  class.  ''Nobody  can  get 
through  it  now  there  are  such  lots  of  them.  And 
the  shells  falling  plump  into  it — talk  about  a 
hash!" 

Our  artillery  was  replying — seventy-fives  whin- 
ing, hundred-and-twenties  brutal,  and  the  re- 
volver canon  swearing  like  a  cat.  Salvoes  were 
answering  salvoes.  And  in  our  hole,  cowering 
down  against  the  dead  that  the  fellows  who  were 
most  frightened  pulled  down  upon  themselves, 
like  bloody  bucklers,  the  survivors  were  waiting. 
Nothing  now  could  be  seen  but  a  stray  soldier 
here  and  there,  a  blue  object  huddled  up  in  a  hole. 
You  might  have  said  that  the  chain  of  men 
stretched  out  in  front  of  the  conquered  village 
was  being  broken  link  by  link.  Every  ten  paces 
there  were  soldiers  lying  at  full  length,  forehead 

17 


258  Wooden  Crosses 

upturned  to  the  sky,  thighs  apart  and  knees  up; 
or  indeed  flat  on  their  bellies,  their  heads  on  their 
arms.  One  of  them  was  lying  so  snugly  that  you 
would  have  said  he  was  asleep;  and  having  taken 
one  look  at  him,  Gilbert  envied  him. 

Sharp  and  sudden  a  fresh  salvo  thundered. 
When  Gilbert  raised  his  head  again  he  saw  in  the 
vanishing  smoke  the  little  soldier-boy  turned  over 
on  his  side.  On  his  new  coat  a  big  red  splash  was 
shaping  itself  to  a  ghastly  round.  He  crawled  to 
him,  lifted  him,  then,  having  let  him  drop  back 
heavily,  he  came  back  to  his  place  at  one  bound. 

' ' Not  worth  while,"  he  said,  "he's  got  a  Itimp  of 
shell  .    .    .  he's  in  the  death-rattle  already .  .  .  ." 

The  explosions  were  now  all  jumbled  up  to- 
gether, the  smoke  no  longer  had  time  to  tmwind 
itself,  and  the  splinters  were  sailing  over  us  in 
furious  volleys.  Suddenly  a  yellow  and  red  flame- 
burst  blinded  us.  With  one  single  movement  we 
had  crammed  ourselves  down  one  into  the  other, 
stunned,  our  very  hearts  torn  from  their  places. 
And  Gilbert  must  have  fallen  without  seeing  any- 
thing or  feeling  anything  but  a  great  blow  like  a 
fisticuff  on  his  head,  a  blast  of  hell-breath  full  in 
the  face.   .    .    . 

When  he  recovered  his  wits,  with  a  heavy  head, 
he  timidly  moved  his  legs.  They  obeyed,  they 
changed  position.  .  .  .  No,  there  was  nothing 
wrong  there.  He  then  passed  his  hand  over  his 
face.  See,  it  was  red.  It  was  in  the  forehead, 
near  the  temple.     Leaning  over  him,  I  said. 


Victory  259 

**It's  nothing  at  all.    Just  a  bit  of  a  cut." 

He  made  no  answer,  still  giddy  and  stayed  with- 
out moving  for  a  good  minute.  Full  up  against 
hiiii,  Hamel  was  still  on  his  knees,  his  face  on  the 
ground.  He  neither  stirred  nor  breathed,  but 
Gilbert  did  not  dare  to  speak  to  him,  not  even  to 
touch  him,  simply  to  keep  for  a  moment  longer 
the  illusion  that  he  was  not  dead.  Then  he  put 
the  question  to  Lemoine,  but  avoiding  the  actual 
word : 

''He^sgotit,  eh?" 

Simply  the  other  showed  him,  between  the  hel- 
met and  the  overcoat,  a  thin  trickle  of  blood  mak- 
ing a  stripe  across  his  neck.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
funnel  at  least  ten  dead  bodies  were  piled  together 
in  a  heap.  Between  two  bloody  coats,  under  the 
corpses,  a  wan  face  showed  itself,  its  eyes  open 
wide,  haggard — dead  or  alive? 

Gilbert  opened  up  his  first-aid  packet  and 
bandaged  up  his  forehead.  With  his  handker- 
chief he  wiped  away  the  blood  that  ran  all  down 
his  cheek  like  a  warm  caress,  then,  to  soothe  his 
burning  head,  he  laid  it  against  the  cold  iron 
barrel  of  his  rifle.  During  a  brief  time  of  quietude, 
he  heard  to  the  right  rifle  fire  crackling  and  the 
barking  of  the  hand-grenades.  He  thought 
vaguely:  "They  are  going  to  attack  again."  But 
he  had  not  the  courage  to  lift  his  head  to  look 
over  into  the  plain. 

A  frantic  salvo  landed,  searching  the  dead 
ground,    and  then  a  hundred-and-five   shrapnel 


26o  Wooden  Crosses 

shell  burst  straight  over  our  hole.  Gilbert  re- 
mained dazed  for  a  moment,  his  heart  stopped. 
Then  with  a  twist  of  the  loins  he  sprang  up,  leaped 
on  the  edge  of  the  funnel  and  bolted.  He  was 
going  to  tuck  himself  away  into  another  hole 
never  mind  where,  but  he  was  not  going  to  stay 
any  longer  in  that  ditch,  in  that  yawning,  gaping 
grave.  Another  salvo  hurled  across,  he  flung 
himself  fiat.  Then  he  got  up  again,  crazed,  ran 
to  the  right,  then  to  the  left,  tripping  and  stum- 
bling over  the  bodies.  All  the  holes  were  taken; 
everywhere  there  were  squashed  dead  bodies, 
haggard  wounded  men,  soldiers  sternly  on  the 
alert,  watching. 

"Is  there  any  room  in  with  you ? " 
"No.     I've  got  a  wounded  pal  here." 
He  still  turned  about  for  a  moment,  then  he 
threw  himself  down  flat  on  his  stomach  behind  a 
Httle  mound.     His  heart  was  beating  wildly,  like 
some  wild  creature  he.  had  crushed  underneath 
him.     Panting  and  gasping  he  was  listening  to  the 
guns,  without  a  single  idea  in  his  fevered  head. 
Suddenly  he  thought : 
"But  I've  run  away." 

He  repeated  it  several  times  to  himself,  not 
clearly  understanding  at  first  go  off.  Then,  hav- 
ing lifted  his  head,  he  saw  Lemoine  making  signals 
to  him.  And  then,  running,  in  one  single  breath, 
he  got  back  to  the  funnel  again. 

It  was  for  all  the  world  like  a  wine-press,  that 
tragic  hole  with  its  purpHng  sides,  and  in  order 


Victory  261 

to  avoid  trampling  o|i  the  bodies  of  the  comrades 
that  filled  the  vat,  you  had  to  maintain  yourself  on 
the  flank  of  the  ditch,  with  your  fingers  thrusting 
into  the  breaking,  crumbling  soil.  Gilbert  thought 
he  was  going  to  faint.  No  suffering  and  no  emo- 
tion, rather  a  dreadful  listlessness.  The  officer, 
still  on  his  knees  behind  his  hummock,  caught 
sight  of  him  and  hailed  him. 

*'Hey,  you  over  there,  going  strong?" 
Gilbert  looked  at  him,  he  looked  at  the  dead. 
With  the  back  of  a  hand  he  wiped  away  the  blood 
that  was  prickling  and  tickHng  his  cheek  then  he 
called  back  his  answer. 
**  Going  strong.    .    .    .'* 

Day  is  departing,  trailing  its  skirts  of  mist  over 
the  plain.  On  the  left,  the  fusillade  is  still  spark- 
ling and  gHnting,  but  like  a  fire  that  is  on  the  point 
of  extinction. 

What  has  happened  since  noon?  We  have 
fired,  burned  by  the  sun,  our  heads  heavy,  our 
throats  parched.  At  last  it  rained,  and  that 
thunder-shower  washed  away  the  fever  that  was 
burning  us  all  up.  In  gusts  the  artillery  was 
sweeping  the  ridge,  raging  wildly  to  find  men  on  it 
still  persisting  in  being  alive.  Then  we  fancied  we 
saw  the  Boche  dash  forward.  And  we  fired,  we 
fired,  we  kept  on  firing 

Quite  close,  in  their  own  wire,  there  are  Ger- 
mans lying,  their  bodies  curled  up  like  a  ball,  and 
you  might  call  them  the  beads  of  a  funereal  rosary. 


262  Wooden  Crosses 

I  noticed  one  of  them  with  his  bag  of  hand 
grenades  on  his  stomach,  who  now  and  then  Hfts 
his  arm  with  a  dying  effort  and  beats  the  air  for  a 
moment. 

In  the  deepening  shadows  the  little  young 
recruit  is  still  in  the  death-rattle.  It  is  a  terrify- 
ing thing  that  lad  who  will  not  die. 

Is  that  the  relief?  Men  are  arriving,  at  the  run 
and  going  from  hole  to  hole  stooping  with  rounded 
backs. 

''Hi,  lads,  how's  things.  Are  we  coming  out? 
What  regiment?" 

No,  these  are  our  own  orderlies. 

"Well!  Are  we  coming  out?" 

' '  No.  .  .  .  We  must  get  through  the  night  here 
still.  The  reinforcing  companies  are  coming  up 
with  the  tools.  We've  got  to  dig  ourselves  in  on 
the  ridge." 

Coming  up  out  of  all  the  holes,  men  are  coming 
together,  going  on  all  fours. 

"What?  stay  here?  No,  kid.  .  .  .  There 
aren't  thirty  left  out  of  the  company." 

"So  it's  the  same  old  thing  as  usual  then.  .  .  . 
I  don't  give  a  blow.  ...  I'm  wounded.  They 
can  all  go  to.  .    .    . " 

"That's  the  orders,"  repeat  the  orderlies. 
"We've  got  to  stick  it.  We'll  be  relieved 
to-morrow." 

There,  we  can't  hear  the  Httle  wounded  recruit 
any  more.  Gilbert  feels  weak,  his  head  abso- 
lutely  empty.     He   would   like   never   to   move 


Victory  263 

again,  and  to  sleep  to  sleep.  His  underlinen  is 
sticking  to  his  back.     Is  it  the  rain  ?  or  sweat  ? 

The  artillery  is  silent,  exhausted,  its  voice 
broken.  The  complaints  and  cries  of  the  wounded 
can  be  heard  better  now —  ''Wait,  children, 
wait,  don't  cry  out  any  more,  the  stretcher- 
bearers  will  be  coming." 

Night  draws  on.   .    .    . 

And  softly  the  silent  evening  weaves  its  misty 
web  one  single  wide  winding  sheet  of  grey  linen,  for 
all  those  dead  men- who  will  have  no  other. 


It  is  a  great  flock  of  emaciated  men,  a  regiment 
of  dried  mud,  that  leaves  the  trenches  and  makes 
off  across  the  fields,  helter-skelter  at  its  own  sweet 
will.  We  carry  wan  and  filthy  faces  innocent  of 
/  any  washing  but  what  the  rain  may  have  given  us. 
We  march  with  lifeless,  dragging  pace,  our  backs 
humped,  our  necks  thrust  forward. 

Once  arrived  on  the  height,  I  stop  and  turn 
around,  to  see  for  a  last  time,  to  carry  away  in  my 
very  soul,  the  picture  of  that  great  plain,  gashed 
with  trenches,  harrowed  by  shells,  with  the  three 
villages  we  captured,  three  heaps  of  grey,  grisly 
ruins. 

What  a  sad  and  gloomy  thing  is  a  panorama  of 
victory.  The  mist  still  hides  corners  of  it  under 
its  shroud,  and  I  can  recognize  nothing  now  on  that 
vast  map  of  upturned  earth.     The  Three  Ways, 


264  Wooden  Crosses 

the  Farm,  the  White  Trench,  all  that  is  confused, 
it  is  the  same  plain,  worn  away  down  to  its  woof 
of  white  marl,  a  flat  moor,  annihilated,  without  a 
tree,  without  a  roof,  without  any  live  thing,  and 
ever3rwhere  fly  specked  with  tiny  spots,  dead  men, 
dead  men,  dead  men.   .    .    . 

"There  are  twenty  thousand  Boche  corpses 
here,"  cried  the  Colonel,  proud  of  us. 

How  many  French? 

We  have  had  to  hold  on  for  ten  days  in  that 
hellish  work -yard,  be  cut  to  pieces  by  whole  bat- 
talions, just  to  add  a  patch  of  field  to  our  victory, 
a  broken-down  trench,  a  paltry  hamlet  in  ruins. 
But  however  I  may  strive  and  search,  I  can  recog- 
nize nothing  now.  The  places  where  we  have 
suffered  so  terribly  are  just  like  any  others;  lost 
in  the  greyness,  as  if  there  could  be  but  one  and 
the  same  outward  aspect  for  one  and  the  same 
martyrdom.  It  is  down  there,  .  .  .  some 
where.  .  .  .  The  dull,  sickly  smell  of  the  corpses 
is  obliterated;  nothing  now  can  be  smelt  but 
chloride  of  lime  exhaled  all  about  from  the  water- 
casks.  But  for  me  it  is  in  my  head,  in  my  very 
flesh,  that  I  carry  the  horrible  breath  of  the 
dead.  It  is  in  me  for  evermore:  I  know  now  the 
odour  of  pity. 

As  we  got  farther  and  farther  from  the  lines, 
the  shattered  fragments  of  the  section  knitted  to- 
gether again,    the   companies  once  more  took  a 


Victory  265 

certain  shape.  We  looked  one  at  another,  and  we 
frightened  each  other. 

Soldiers  lying  stretched  out  on  the  leprous  grass 
got  up  and  came  towards  us.  That  very  evening 
they  were  to  go  up  into  the  line. 

"It's  stiff,  mates?" 

"The  sector  of  death." 

And  pointing  out  our  harassed  band  with  a 
motion  of  his  chin,  Breval  said  simply: 

"One  company.   .    .    ." 

With  heads  drooping  we  passed  through  a  most 
woebegone  country,  with  windows  devoid  of  panes, 
and  with  roofs  like  sieves ;  then  we  were  halted  in  a 
field  on  the  edge  of  the  highroad  where  the  lorries 
were  waiting.  There  we  had  food:  hot  rice  that 
filled  up  your  stomach,  and  that  we  simply  couldn't 
tire  of  devouring,  greedily,  with  full  cups  of  boiling 
hot  coffee,  less  for  true  hunger  than  for  the  bestial 
delight  of  eating,  to  overtake  those  days  of  abject 
distress,  to  stodge  ourselves,  to  feel  ourselves 
stuffed  full. 

The  old  white  bearded  quartermaster  was  giving 
out  brandy  as  you  pour  out  wine,  by  brimming 
cupfuls. 

"It's  got  to  be  finished,"  he  cried  cordially  to 
us. 

As  for  wine,  you  had  only  to  go  and  ladle  it  up. 
As  they  drank,  the  boys,  absolutely  full  to  the 
teeth,  followed  the  old  fellow  about  with  an  un- 
friendly eye. 

"It's  his  fault  that  big  Lambert  is  killed." 


266  Wocxien  Crosses 

"Poor  beggar!  ...  He  hadn't  been  in  the 
trenches  since  Berry." 

Silent,  I  thought  of  his  cross,  his  prophetic  cross 
of  shadow  in  the  moon. 

"It  seems  he  got  up  three  times,"  narrated  Gil- 
bert in  a  loud  voice,  so  that  the  quartermaster 
should  hear  him,  "and  all  three  times  he  was  hit 
by  machine  guns.  After  that  he  still  dragged 
himself  along,  crying  out.  ...  I  had  promised 
him  to  write  to  his  mother." 

Those  of  us  who  were  most  done  up  had  fallen 
asleep.  The  others,  mixed  up  in  little  groups  with 
the  lorry-drivers,  were  arguing  and  discussing: 
they  were  all  talking  at  once,  feverishly,  throwing 
out  pell-mell  their  still  palpitating  impressions, 
seeming  to  want  to  unburthen  themselves  of  these 
too  crushing  memories.  Far  more  moved  and 
excited  than  ourselves,  the  drivers  were  listening, 
and  as  they  were  the  only  ones  who  had  been  able 
to  read  the  newspapers,  they  expounded  to  us  the 
battle  of  which  we  knew  nothing  whatever. 

The  comrades  were  proudly  displaying  all  their 
trophies  and  enemy  spoils,  helmets  hung  to  their 
belts,  like  scalps. 

"I'll  buy  it  off  you,"  proposed  one  of  the  chauf- 
feurs to  one  of  the  boys. 

Tempted  by  the  price,  another  offered  his  own 
booty,  and  there  on  the  edge  of  the  road  a  regular 
market  came  into  being.  Every  kind  of  souvenir 
was  on  sale,  every  sort  of  thing  that  an  attack  can 
throw  up  by  way  of  wreckage:  shoulder-straps, 


Victory  267 

grey  caps,  shell-fuses — "They  make  topping  ink- 
stands, my  boy" — Boche  cartridge-clips  that  were 
going  for  twenty  sous,  little  cups  made  of  alu- 
minium that  are  very  light  but  burn  your  fingers, 
water-bottles  covered  in  khaki  cloth,  postcards 
covered  with  unintelligible  loving  messages.  Over 
certain  helmets  carrying  eagles  with  outstretched 
wings  men  leaned  curiously,  to  see  the  murderous 
hole  through  which  the  life  had  taken  flight. 
Sulphart  was  flourishing  his  pair  of  yellow  boots, 
as  a  rare  specimen  of  merchandise. 

*'A  Boche's  shoes,  blokes!"  cried  he.  .  .  . 
"Ripping  officer's  booties!  Who's  going  to  have 
them?  A  nice  present  for  a  little  chicken.  .  .  . 
Who  would  like  to  go  clumping  about  Panama 
with  Boche  boots  on  him!" 

He  shut  up  sharply  and  picked  up  his  wares, 
like  a  pedlar  surprised  in  the  act. 

**0h,  sugar!  there's  Morache.  ..."  We 
hadn't  set  eyes  on  him  for  ten  days,  since  the  morn- 
ing of  the  attack.  Not  for  one  single  instant  had 
he  left  the  stinking  cellar — the  first  he  came  to — 
that  he  had  seized  on  as  command  post,  and  he  had 
come  out  of  it  with  a  face  like  mildew,  discoloured 
Hps,  and  his  eyes  all  blinking.  Squeaking,  he  was 
making  the  company  fall  in — his  company  now  that 
Cruchet  was  killed — and  brutally  awakening  the 
sleepers  by  prodding  them  with  the  end  of  his 
cane. 

"Come  on,  I've  given  orders  for  packs  up,  you 
lazy   beggar!"   he   cried   into   the   face   of   little 


268  Wooden  Crosses 

Broucke,  who  was  getting  up,  swaying  dizzily,  his 
eyes  still  vague  with  sleep. 

Sore  against  our  will,  we  got  under  our  equip- 
ment. 

''All  the  same,  it's  not  him  they'll  stick  on  to  us 
for  Captain,  after  the  way  he's  played  up.  .  .  . 
It  was  Berthier  that  did  all  the  work.   .    .    ." 

"Yes,  but  he's  got  only  one  string." 

"It's  a  good  job  for  Vieuble  that  he  got  himself 
sent  down;  it  would  have  knocked  him  endways." 

"He's  the  lad  with  the  sure  enough  luck,  I  say. 
...  If  you  had  seen  him  streaking  off  with 
his  leg  chipped,  I  swear  he  was  funny!" 

We  went  all  aboard.  In  a  moment  everybody 
was  settled  in  his  corner,  packs  piled  up  in  the 
bottom  of  the  lorries,  and  we  could  once  more  sit 
down,  lie  down,  take  our  ease. 

"They  might  have  foreseen  that,"  said  the 
driver,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  He  was  kneeling 
on  his  seat,  and  looking  us  over.  "They  ordered 
up  just  the  same  number  of  carts  as  fetched  you, 
and  there's  not  the  same  number  of  you  now,  is 
there?" 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  did  we  notice  the  empty 
places.  What  a  lot  were  missing!  I  still  saw  in 
fancy  big  Lambert,  forcing  himself  to  laugh: 
Father  Hamel  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  corner :  and 
Fouillard,  who  had  sat  right  at  the  back  with  his 
legs  dangling  down.     At  every  jolt  we  would  say : 

* '  If  only,  if  only  I  could  tumble  out  and  break 
my  head!" 


Victory  269 

The  convoy  set  itself  in  motion,  disappearing 
in  a  thick  cloud  of  dust  that  clung  like  a  fringe 
round  the  chauffeurs'  eyes  and  gave  them  white 
beards.  Dizzy  and  stunned,  and  lulled  at  the 
same  time,  prostrated  with  heat,  weariness,  and 
bad  wine,  men  were  half  dozing,  and  yet  too  much 
shaken  to  sleep.  Broucke  alone  at  once  started 
again  to  snore,  lying  on  his  back,  his  yellow  straw 
head  quivering  and  jolting  on  his  pack. 

Maroux,  leaning  forward,  would  chaff  the  girls, 
triumphantly  flourishing  a  spiked  helmet  as  if  he 
had  won  it  himself  in  single  combat?  Between 
the  villages  and  the  lorries  signals  were  exchanged, 
shoutings,  even  kisses,  that  were  sent  back  to  us  by 
girls  all  bathed  in  sweat,  their  shirts  open  and 
tucked  in  over  their  bosoms. 

We  were  moving  away  from  the  war:  the  win- 
dows now  had  their  glazed  panes,  the  roofs  had  their 
tiles.  All  of  a  sudden  the  lorries  danced  over  cob- 
bled pavements,  and  straightway  we  could  hear 
shouts  from  the  foremost  waggons.  Every  head 
was  slipped  under  the  awnings,  every  body  was 
leaning  towards  the  rear;  and  then,  all  along  the 
convoy  there  was  a  burst  of  wild  cheering.  Fa- 
bulous apparition,  double  miracle,  a  railway  was 
in  full  view,  a  real  civilian  railway,  with  real  car- 
riages and  on  the  station  square  a  woman  in  a  hat. 

The  level  crossing  once  passed,  it  was  a  regular 
little  town,  with  shops,  footpaths,  women,  cafes, 
all  of  which  we  eyed  with  the  dazzled  stupidity  of 
savages,  without  ever  growing  tired  of  shouting 


270  Wooden  Crosses 

our  delight.  Those  who  had  dressings  on  their 
foreheads  pushed  back  their  helmets  so  as  to  be 
seen  the  better,  and  Belin  was  proudly  blowing 
kisses  with  his  wounded  hand  just  like  a  bundle  of 
fresh  white  linen. 

At  a  flower-adorned  window  a  pretty  fair  head 
showed  itself — every  face  is  always  pretty  when  it 
is  only  seen  in  a  glimpse  for  a  moment — greeted  as 
we  passed  by  with  a  long  whoop,  and  the  whirl- 
wind was  already  far  past  while  she  still  listened, 
leaning  out  over  that  wake  of  dust  and  cries. 

The  convoy  was  still  rumbling  on,  and  nobody 
complained  of  the  length  of  the  way.  We  would 
fain  have  put  still  more  villages,  still  more  fields, 
still  more  leagues  between  us  and  the  war.  So 
much  the  better:  we  should  have  the  guns  in  our 
ears  no  longer.  Among  the  stubble  the  thrashing- 
machines  were  snoring  and  eating  up  the  fair- 
haired  sheaves,  the  little  woods  and  thickets  bathed 
our  scorched  eyes  in  their  verdurous  fresh  coolth ; 
we  envied  the  peace  and  snug  happiness  of  the 
villages  we  caught  glimpses  of  under  the  trees,  of 
those  farms  with  the  red  roofs,  farms  that  to  us 
were  now  only  so  many  billets. 

It  was  too  hot  under  the  awnings,  on  which  the 
sun  was  beating  straight  down.  We  were  tor- 
pid we  shouted  no  more,  we  would  fain  have 
slept.  ...  At  last  the  lorries  slowed  down  and 
then  halted. 

Our  legs  were  hurting  us,  our  heads  were  heavy, 
our   bodies   filled   with    aches    and   discomforts. 


Victory  271 

Growling,  we  buckled  on  our  packs,  which  had 
never  seemed  so  heavy. 

"Why  didn't  they  set  us  down  properly  in  the 
village  itself?  It's  easily  seen  they're  not  tired 
those  Johnnies " 

Hardly  had  we  alighted  when  certain  of  us 
slipped  down  on  to  the  grass.  Others  went  forward 
limping,  their  feet  swollen  in  the  stiff  leather  of  the 
boots  we  had  not  taken  off  for  two  weeks.  They 
propped  themselves  up  on  their  rifles,  leaned  up 
against  the  trees,  a  mud-covered  troop  of  foot- 
sore cripples  that  no  will  power  held  up  any 
longer.  Bourland  arrived  on  his  low  bicycle  and 
called  to  me : 

*  'Jacques ! — We  are  to  march  past  in  the  village, 
the  band  at  our  head.  The  General  is  in  the 
village  square." 

Upon  the  bank,  the  heads  of  the  lads  lying 
down  rose  up  in  indignation,  the  cripples  flocked 
together. 

''What?  A  parade  now?  Don't  they  care  a 
curse  about  us?  Aren't  we  broken  up  enough 
already?" 

"No,  the  General  wants  to  count  the  ones  he 
hasn't  got  killed.   ..." 

"Well,  then,  I  won't  march,  I  won't!  Morache 
can  yelp  as  much  as  he  likes." 

Sulphart  shouted  louder  than  all  the  rest,  waving 
his  still  unsold  boots. 

"They're  only  good  for  turning  out  in  proces- 
sions on  horseback.     It's  only  in  the  trenches  you 


272  Wooden  Crosses 

never  set  eyes  on  them.  They  didn't  join  in  the 
carnival  up  at  the  Three  Ways." 

"To  hold  a  review  after  all  we've  just  had 
shoved  on  us,  they  must  be  a  set  of  criminals!" 
assented  Lemoine  soberly.     ' '  We  ought  to  refuse. ' ' 

As  they  were  arguing  a  motor-car  came  to  a 
halt,  and  Berthier  got  out  of  it.  His  mud  soaked 
coat  fell  stiffly  down  like  a  cylinder  of  hardened 
clay:  his  eyes  were  sunken  behind  his  glasses,  he 
came  forward  with  a  dragging  step.  Plainly  he 
was  absolutely  all  in. 

** We're  fed  up.  Lieutenant,"  declared  Sulphart 
to  him  with  the  firm  and  solid  dignity  of  a  free 
man.  **We  simply  don't  feel  like  marching  past 
in  front  of  any  bally  little  civilians." 

"Very  likely  not,  indeed;  but  there's  the  Gen- 
eral," replied  Berthier  quietly.  "Come,  my  lads, 
packs  up !  There's  a  battalion  of  young  recruits 
quartered  there,  it's  up  to  us  to  let  them  see  we're 
not  a  regiment  of  little  girls." 

They  got  into  their  equipment  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, grumbling  the  while.     They  lined  up. 

"By  the  right,  form  fours!" 

On  the  road,  we  could  see  the  band  forming  up, 
the  regimental  colour  brought  out  of  its  case  and 
take  its  place  in  the  ranks. 

' '  En  avant  I — March ! ' ' 

The  regiment  shook  itself  into  motion.  At 
the  head  the  band  was  playing  the  regimental 
march,  and  at  the  victorious  repetition  of  the 
bugles,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  weary  backs  were 


Victory  273 

stiffening  up.  The  start  had  been  sluggish,  had 
hung  fire,  but  akeady  the  cadence  was  becoming 
crisper,  and  the  feet  were  pounding  the  earth 
with  a  regular  rhythmic  beat.  They  were  lay 
figures  of  mud,  that  marched  along,  boots  of  mud, 
thigh  breeches  of  mud,  coats  of  mud,  and  water- 
bottles  for  all  the  world  like  big  lumps  of  clay. 

Not  one  of  the  slightly  wounded  had  quitted 
the  ranks,  but  they  were  not  a  whit  more  pallid, 
not  more  exhausted  now  than  the  rest.  All  had 
underneath  their  helmets  the  self -same  features  of 
late  dismay  and  horror :  a  march  past  of  ghosts. 

The  country  folk  at  the  front  have  toughened 
hearts,  and  are  now  little  to  be  touched  with  emo- 
tion after  so  many  horrors,  but  when  they  saw 
debouching  the  foremost  company  of  this  regi- 
ment from  the  other  world,  their  faces  changed. 

"Oh!  the  poor  lads!  ..." 

A  woman  fell  aweeping,  then  others,  then  all  the 
women.  It  was  a  homage  of  tears  all  along  the 
houses,  and  it  was  only  by  seeing  them  weep 
that  we  understood  how  much  we  had  suffered 
and  endured.  A  sad  pride  came  to  the  dullest 
of  us.  Every  head  went  up,  a  new,  strange, 
honourable  arrogance  in  their  eyes.  The  band 
drew  us  along,  with  all  its  brass  sounding,  the 
drums  rolling,  the  most  foundered  seemed  to  re- 
vive, and  one  could  feel  them  ready  to  shout,  "It 
is  we  that  made  the  attack!  It  is  we  that  are 
back  from  up  there!" 

On  the  square,  the  battalion  of  young  recruits 


274  Wooden  Crosses 

was  drawn  up  in  new  coats,  and  with  bayonets 
fixed.  A  few  paces  to  the  front,  the  General,  on 
horseback,  with  his  staff  in  all  their  war  paint. 
Not  a  voice  in  all  our  ranks,  not  a  murmur  to  the 
front.  Under  the  music,  like  fever  in  the  blood, 
there  was  nothing  heard  but  the  mechanical  ca- 
dence of  the  regiment  on  the  march.  The  volun- 
teer look  of  the  men  defiling  by  seemed  fain  to 
dominate  all  those  silent  boys  who  were  presenting 
arms. 

The  General  had  stood  up  in  his  stirrups,  and 
with  a  great  dramatic  gesture  of  his  naked  sword, 
he  saluted  our  riddled  colours,  he  saluted  US. 
And  all  at  once  the  regiment  was  no  more  than 
one  single  being.  One  single  pride  to  be  those  that 
are  saluted!  Proud  of  our  mud,  proud  of  our 
toil  and  distress,  proud  of  our  dead !  .  .  . 

The  bugles  burst  forth  once  more,  and  we 
entered  into  the  main  street,  superb,  glorious  stiff- 
ened up,  between  a  moving  hedge  of  young  soldiers 
keeping  step  with  us.  The  girl  of  the  post  office, 
red-eyed,  her  head  thrown  well  back,  greeted  us 
with  her  damp  handkerchief,  crying  out  something 
that  was  stifled  in  a  sob. 

Then  Sulphart,  pale  as  chalk,  could  hold  in  no 
longer. 

"We're  the  fellows  that  made  the  attack!"  he 
shouted  to  her  in  a  mighty  voice.     * '  It  was  us ! " 

And  from  all  the  turning  heads,  from  all  the 
gleaming  eyes,  from  every  lip,  the  same  cry  of 
pride  seemed  to  jet  forth :  * '  It  is  we !    It  is  we ! " 


Victory  275 

The  sonorous  music  went  to  our  heads  like 
strong  drink,  seeming  to  bear  us  off  in  a  kind  of 
Sunday  festival;  we  went  forward,  our  loins  filled 
with  ardour,  opposing  to  those  tears  our  virile 
pride  of  conquerors. 

Come,  come!  There  will  always  be  wars, 
always,  always.  .   .   • 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN  THE  GARDEN   OF  THE  DEAD 

The  company  was  going  forward  by  fits  and 
starts,  stopped  here  by  the  rockets,  farther  on 
by  the  wounded  men  that  were  being  carried 
down. 

The  broadening  trench  now  and  then  came  up 
out  on  to  the  surface,  filled  in  by  a  shell,  and  be- 
fore one  might  be  seen  emerging  from  the  shadow 
comrades,  with  humping  backs,  running  full-tilt 
through  the  fields,  rifle  in  hand,  and  then  jumping 
quickly  down  again  into  the  shattered  ditch.  No 
one  spoke,  no  one  hardly  even  so  much  as  grum- 
bled :  we  filed  on,  quick,  as  if  happiness  had  been 
waiting  for  us  at  the  end  of  the  journey.. 

"Look  out!" — the  word  was  passed  down  in  a 
low  voice  by  the  orderly  guide  who  was  leading  us 
up  to  the  front  lines — *' there  are  two  men  on 
fatigue  lying  across  the  trench.  We  haven't  had 
time  yet  to  take  them  away." 

Gilbert,  who  was  walking  next  in  front  of  me, 
warned  me : 

"Step  out!" 

I  knocked  into  something :  two  swollen  objects, 
two  flabby  hummocks.     Trodden  on  by  a  whole 

276 


In  the  Garden  of  the  Dead     277 

relief,  the  flattened  corpses  were  already  covered 
over  with  a  thin,  filmy  shroud  of  mud. 

**  Between  this  and  to-morrow  you  won't  be 
able  to  see  them  any  more,"  said  a  voice. 

The  Boche  heavy  stuff  was  still  coming  over, 
regular,  ferocious.  But  in  that  continuous  rum- 
bling we  gave  ear  only  to  the  shells  that  crashed 
close  to  us:  the  others  were  of  no  account  what- 
ever. At  every  salvo  we  went  to  ground,  huddled 
up  under  our  packs,  watching  for  the  red  torch 
of  the  explosion.  Then  we  would  go  on  at  a 
jolting  trot. 

Close  up  behind  the  back  of  the  orderly,  who 
now  and  then  hesitated  between  two  trenches,  the 
men  would  grouse  and  grumble  out  of  mere  habit. 

''It's  most  unfortunate.  .  .  .  Always  the 
silliest  bounders  are  the  ones  chosen  to  guide  the 
others.  You'll  see  he'll  manage  to  lose  our  way 
for  us." 

At  the  double  we  crossed  a  road  covered  with 
chunks  of  stone,  and  leaving  the  trench,  we  turned 
round  the  ruins  of  the  village,  defiling  behind  the 
stumps  of  walls  that  came  up  to  our  waists.  Where 
were  we  making  for  ?  To  relieve  whom  ?  We  had 
no  notion. 

"Quicker!  quicker!"  squeaked  Morache. 

The  rockets  were  now  seen  very  close,  behind  a 
steep  bank,  and  their  fantastic  curve  seemed  to 
dive  down  on  top  of  us.  We  no  longer  heard 
around  us  the  half -stifled  rumour  of  the  reliefs,  the 
wrangling  buzzing  of  the  fatigues ;  each  and  every 


278  Wooden  Crosses 

noise  was  hushed,  and  under  the  mad  thundering 
of  the  guns  we  felt  close  at  hand  the  great  uneasy 
silence  of  the  trenches. 

' '  Pass  the  word  down  for  silence, ' '  murmured  our 
guide. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  answered  Sulphart,  "nobody 
wants  to  sing." 

A  big  wall  ran  right  aross  the  plain,  shattered, 
dismantled,  with  big  patches  almost  untouched.. 
It  stood  up  black  and  tragic  against  this  war  time 
sky  of  a  harsh  whiteness.  At  long  intervals  a 
stump  of  a  tree.  Was  that  the  sugar  factory, 
since  they  were  talking  about  it?  Or  the  park  of 
the  ch§,teau? 

"There  you  are,"  said  the  orderly  under  his 
breath. 

In  the  wall  was  a  wider  breach  than  usual,  we 
passed  through.  Bayonets  caught  in  things,  a 
water-bottle  clinked,  and,  each  man  following 
another's  silhouette,  we  advanced  stumbling  and 
knocking  into  the  stones.  With  a  long  whistle 
two  rockets  went  up  along  the  same  path. 

"Don't  budge!" 

The  blinding  light  lit  up  the  whole  bru- 
tally. Immobile,  without  so  much  as  stirring 
the  head,  the  men  looked  out.  In  one  single 
glance  they  saw  the  crosses,  the  tombstones,  the 
cypress- trees :  we  were  in  the  cemetery.  It  was 
a  huge  yard  of  smashed-up  stones,  trees  slashed  to 
tatters,  and  dominating  these  ruins  was  a  great 
austere  Saint,  holding  on  his  folded  arms  a  marble 


In  the  Garden  of  the  Dead     279 

book,  in  which  night  by  night  flying,  whispering 
shell-splinters  engraved  strange  matters. 

''This  way,  leading  section,"  ordered  Sergeant 
Ricordeau. 

Our  file  followed  him.  A  torpedo  burst  twenty 
paces  off  in  a  big  red  fountain.  Everybody  went 
down  like  a  shot.  In  the  dark  a  wounded  man 
cried  out. 

''Come  on,  quick,  now!"  urged  the  Sergeant. 
.    .    .      "Breval's  squad  here." 

In  front  of  me,  flattened  up  against  a  parapet 
of  sandbags,  a  sentry  growled. 

"Pack  up  fools!  If  you  bellow  like  that  you 
will  never  get  back,  not  a  one  of  you.  The  Boches 
aren't  twenty  metres  away." 

Ricordeau,  who  was  sticking  out  his  head,  peer- 
ing to  recognize  his  people,  was  placing  his  men  in 
position. 

"Lemoine,  to  the  parapet;  you  will  take  the 
first  watch.  You  will  have  your  orders  passed 
up  to  you.  Breval,  you  have  these  three  dug-outs 
for  your  squad.     Look  lively ! ' ' 

Breval  and  others  went  into  a  little  narrow 
chapel  without  a  roof,  and  I  saw  them  thrust  them- 
selves under  the  earth,  lying  flat  on  their  stomachs. 
Demachy,  who  was  just  in  front  of  me,  threw  his 
satchel  into  a  black  hole  at  the  foot  of  a  slab  of 
stone,  and  jumped  down.  I  followed  him.  At 
the  same  moment  a  terrific  explosion  made  the 
earth  quiver,  and  there  was  a  beating  of  hail  on  our 
stone  roof. 


28o  Wooden  Crosses 

"That  was  just  in  time,"  said  Gilbert. 

Groping  and  fumbling,  we  tried  to  discover  the 
objects  around  us,  and  our  hands  glided  on  the 
cold  walls.  Above  our  heads  the  entrance  opened, 
like  a  blue  window. 

"Let's  stop  that  up  and  make  a  light." 

We  hung  up  a  breadth  of  canvas  folded  in  two, 
and  Gilbert  struck  a  light  with  his  patent  lighter. 
The  candle  with  its  squashed  wick  hesitated, 
vacillating,  and  then  the  light  showed  up  our  hole. 
The  four  walls  were  gleaming  with  damp.  On 
the  pavement  of  the  cavern  there  was  nothing  but 
a  dirty  mattress  of  old  newspapers,  on  which  we 
could  read  the  headlines  in  German. 

"The  old  occupiers  have  left  us  something  to 
read,  you  see.  ...  I  say,  one  of  them  has  cut 
his  name." 

On  the  bare  chalk,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  Ger- 
man with  vast  patience  had  begun  to  engrave 
"Siegf.  .  .  .  "  Why  had  he  wanted  to  leave  his 
name  in  this  grave?  .  .  .  And  the  other  one, 
the  first  who  had  been  laid  to  rest  there,  he  whose 
name  must  have  been  engraved  on  the  cross,  what 
had  they  done  with  him  ? 

"You  don't  mind  being  down  there?  As  far 
as  that  goes  you  know,  with  a  blanket  underneath 
and  one  on  top,  we  won't  be  too  badly  off." 

"And  then  those  tombstones  up  there,  they're 
pretty  thick,  and  it  would  have  to  drop  clean  on  top 
of  them  to  come  through.  I'm  taking  the  second 
watch,  from  three  to  five;  and  what  about  you?" 


In  the  Garden  of  the  Dead     281 

We  stretched  ourselves  out.  The  space  was  no 
wider  than  in  a  child's  bed;  in  spite  of  our  great 
coats,  the  blanket,  and  the  thin  layer  of  newspaper 
for  bedding,  we  could  feel  under  our  loins  the  chill 
of  the  stone.  I  had  put  my  head  on  Gilbert's 
shoulder,  and  with  my  hands  slipped  into  my 
armpits  and  my  coat-collar  about  my  ears,  I  en- 
deavoured to  sleep.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
seen,  absolutely  nothing. 

Up  above,  in  a  frightened  kind  of  growling, 
the  bombardment  was  continuing,  preparing  their 
counter-attack,  and  now  and  then  the  battering- 
ram  blow  of  a  torpedo  made  the  whole  cemetery 
quake.  A  kind  of  lucid  nightmare  haunted  my 
mind.  Against  my  back  I  could  feel  the  damp 
breath  of  the  tomb  that  sent  cold  shivers  over  me. 

"Are  you  cold?" 

"No." 

The  bones?  Where  have  they  flung  out  their 
bones  ?  A  ridiculous  notion  pursues  me.  I  should 
like  to  go  outside  to  decipher  the  name,  to  find 
out  in  whose  bed  I  happen  to  be  lying.  Then  if  a 
torpedo  came  slamming  down  there,  it  would  be 
all  over?  Not  even  the  trouble  to  bury  us,  no 
need  even  of  a  cross ;  that  has  been  already  erected 
for  the  other.  Isn't  it  in  a  way  tempting  death, 
isn't  it  very  like  cheeking  him,  to  make  your  bed 
in  a  grave?     However,  it  is  not  our  fault.    .    .    . 

Yes,  I  would  really  dearly  Hke  to  know  the  name 
of  that  other  fellow.  In  spite  of  myself  I  am 
thinking  of  him.     I  imagine  him  lying  there,  very 


282  Wooden  Crosses 

straight  and  stiff.  And  superstitious,  afraid, 
being  straight  and  stiff  Hke  him,  of  being  taken  for 
a  dead  man,  I  curl  myself  up,  I  pull  up  my  knees. 

'  *  How  you  thrash  about ! ' ' 

A  heavy  shadowy  darkness  presses  us  down. 
The  two  walls,  coming  together,  squeeze  us  one 
up  against  the  other,  like  two  children  in  their 
mother's  lap.  Gilbert  is  not  sleeping  any  more 
than  myself,  and  against  my  cheek  I  can  feel  his 
quick  breathing. 

Siegfried.  .  .  .  Why  didn't  he  stay  here,  see- 
ing that  he  had  carved  his  name  ?  It  was  the  other 
dead  man  that  must  have  driven  him  away,  who 
would  not  have  him  there ;  and  he  went  to  die  out- 
side, no  matter  where,  among  those  broken  stones 
chopped  to  pieces  by  the  iron  storm.  Perhaps  his 
even  were  the  stiffened  feet  that  a  little  while  ago 
made  me  stumble. 

I  have  seen  a  carbine  hanging  from  the  arm  of  a 
cross,  satchels  fastened  on  to  it  where  the  wreaths 
used  to  be;  the  shells  have  wrenched  and  twisted 
the  railings.  .  .  .  Not  so  long  ago  I  have  gone 
through  some  of  those  country  churchyards  where 
the  honeysuckles  knotted  their  tendrils  over  for- 
gotten tombs!  A  girl  in  a  red  bodice  hoed  and 
scraped  the  pathway.  It  was  summer.  No,  they 
could  never  be  as  cold  as  we  are,  under  their 
hillock  of  rich  grass ;  we  are  more  dead  than  they, 
under  these  stone  slabs  where  we  are  shivering.  A 
thrill  of  cold  and  distress  sliding  down  by  way  of 
my  sleeves  has^just  frozen  me  down  to  the  stomach. 


In  the  Garden  of  the  Dead     283 

It  is  no  lie,  then,  no  fiction,  the  cold  of  the  tomb 
that  the  poets  talk  of?     Oh,  how  cold  I  am! 

Up  above  the  groping  shells  go  on,  always  hunt- 
ing for  men  in  the  blackness.  For  all  that,  we  are 
going  to  sleep.  Under  the  crosses  there  are  fifty 
of  us,  a  hundred  of  us,  dead  men  sleeping.  Resur- 
rected, the  sentries  are  on  the  watch,  with  hard 
eyes,  above  the  breaking  parapet.  How  many 
dreams,  how  many  visions,  to-night,  in  these 
eternal  alcoves? 

Certe,  ils  doivent  trouver  les  vivants  bien  ingrats 
De  dormir,  comme  ils  font  chaudement,  dans  leurs 
draps.  .  .  . 


Three  days — this  makes  three  days  we  have 
been  holding  the  cemetery,  all  smashed  and 
pounded  by  the  shells.  Nothing  to  be  done, 
nothing  but  wait.  When  everything  will  have 
been  overturned  and  shattered,  when  there  should 
be  nothing  left  but  a  chumed-up  mixture  of  stones 
and  men,  they  will  attack.  Then  it  is  necessary 
that  there  should  be  Hve  men  remaining  for  that. 

Between  these  four  walls  that  are  being  loop- 
holed  and  bitten  away,  the  company  is  a  prisoner, 
isolated  from  the  rest  of  the  regiment  by  the  sauce- 
pans that  are  digging  into  the  ruins,  the  machine 
gims  that  sweep  the  commimicating  paths. 

At  nightfall  some  men  on  fatigue  set  off,  and  a 
few  stretcher-bearers  risk  it.     And  quickly,  work- 


284  Wooden  Crosses 

ing  in  the  utmost  concealment,  they  exhume  a  man 
from  a  great  family  vault  where  wounded  men 
have  been  groaning  for  days,  and  no  help  possible 
for  them.  They  steal  a  dead  man  from  the  ceme- 
tery. 

There  are  still  six  more  of  them,  in  the  vault  that 
has  been  enlarged  by  the  Boches.  When  you 
bend  over  their  hole,  you  breathe  in  the  hideous 
odour  of  their  fever,  and  the  imploring  plaint  of 
their  indistinguishable,  raucous  breathing.  One 
of  them  has  been  there  for  a  week,  abandoned 
by  his  regiment.  He  speaks  no  longer.  He  is  a 
thing  of  tragic  leanness,  emaciated,  with  enormous 
eyes,  hollow  cheeks  defiled  with  a  sprouting  beard, 
and  fieshless  hands,  whose  claws  rake  at  the  stone. 
He  does  not  even  move  any  more,  so  as  to  feel  no 
more  the  deadened  wound  of  his  mangled  thighs; 
but  a  dreadful  thirst  forces  him  to  groan. 

By  night  we  take  water  to  him,  coffee  when  any 
comes  up.  But  from  mid-day  all  the  water-bottles 
are  empty.  Then,  parched  with  fever,  he  stretches 
out  his  lean  neck  and  greedily  licks  the  stone  of 
the  tomb,  on  which  the  water  sweats  and  trickles 
down. 

One  lad,  in  a  corner,  scrapes  at  his  white  tongue 
with  a  knife.  Another  now  lives  only  in  the  im- 
perceptible panting  of  his  breast,  with  eyes  shut, 
teeth  tight  clenched,  all  his  poor  strength  pulled 
together  and  concentrated  to  defend  him  against 
death,  to  save  his  little  remnant  of  life  that  quivers 
and  is  about  to  slip  away. 


In  the  Garden  of  the  Dead     285 

All  the  same  he  hopes,  they  all  hope,  even  the 
one  at  the  point  of  death.  All  of  them  are  fain  to 
live,  and  the  lad  keeps  repeating  persistently: 

"To-night  the  stretcher-bearers  are  sure  to 
come,  they  promised  us  yesterday." 

Life,  .  .  .  how  it  defends  itself  up  to  the  last 
shiver,  up  to  the  last  gasp !  Verily,  if  they  had  no 
hope  of  the  stretcher-bearers,  if  the  hospital  bed 
did  not  gleam  out  like  a  point  of  happiness  in 
their  fever-dream,  they  would  come  forth  from 
their  tomb,  in  spite  of  their  shattered  limbs  or 
gaping  belly;  they  would  drag  themselves  on 
through  the  stones  with  their  claws,  with  their 
very  teeth.  It  needs  a  terrific  force  to  kill  a  man ; 
it  needs  a  tremendous  amount  of  suffering  to  over- 
throw a  man.   .    .    . 

And  yet  it  happens.  Hope  flees  away,  resigna- 
tion, all  in  black,  settles  heavily  upon  the  soul. 
Then  the  man,  resigned  to  his  destiny,  pulls  up 
his  blanket  over  him,  says  never  a  word  more,  and 
like  that  poor  fellow  dying  in  a  corner  of  the  tomb, 
he  merely  turns  his  feverish  head  and  licks  the 
weeping  stone. 


You  would  say  that  nothing  is  alive  in  that  stone 
yard  of  broken  fragments  baking  in  the  sun.  Last 
night  we  were  shivering  with  cold  in  our  holes, 
now  we  are  suffocating.  Nothing  is  stirring. 
Crammed  up  against  the  sandbag  parapet,  his 
silhouette  of  the  same  colour,  the  watcher  is  wait- 


286  Wooden  Crosses 

ing,  without  a  movement,  fixed,  immobile,  like 
him  whom  you  see  lying  before  the  chapel,  his 
arms  stretched  out  in  the  form  of  a  cross,  the  back 
of  his  neck  gaping  wide,  his  skull  swallowed  up  in 
the  wound. 

The  shells  are  falling  without  ceasing,  but  we 
hear  them  no  longer.  Stupefied,  feverish,  we  have 
gone  to  pay  a  visit  in  Sulphart's  tomb.  We  recog- 
nize it  by  its  sign : 

MATHIEU,  SOMETIME  MAYOR  OF  THIS  PLACE. 

From  morning  to  night  he  plays  cards  with 
Lemoine,  and  as  he  is  a  steady  loser  he  cries  out, 
swears  at  the  other,  and  accuses  him  of  robbing 
him.     Lemoine  remains  quite  placid. 

"Don't  you  yell  so  much,"  he  merely  says, 
"you'll  be  waking  the  Mayor." 

Heaped  up,  all  four  of  us,  in  the  narrow  tomb, 
we  pant  and  puff.  It  is  only  three  o'clock;  all  the 
water-bottles  have  long  been  empty,  and  the  ra- 
tion party  that  starts  at  dusk  will  not  be  back 
before  midnight.  I  am  not  talking  any  more  so 
as  not  to  be  so  thirsty.  This  dust  of  pounded 
stone  and  powder  burns  and  parches  our  throats, 
and  with  dried  lips  and  humming  temples  we  think 
of  drinking — of  drinking  as  beasts  drink,  with  our 
heads  plunged  in  a  bucket. 

"You'll  buy  us  a  bucket  of  wine,  eh,  Gilbert?'* 
repeats  Sulphart.  .  .  .  "We'll  get  down  on  our 
knees  all  round  it,  and  we'll  drink  like  that,  fit 
to  burst." 


In  the  Garden  of  the  Dead     ^^1 

Since  he  first  said  that  to  us  the  idea  pursues  us 
and  sticks  to  us.  That  delight,  impossible  of  ful- 
filment, fascinates  us  to  the  point  of  driving  us 
crazy :  to  drink,  to  drink  with  the  whole  face,  your 
chin,  your  cheeks — to  drink  out  of  a  regular 
trough. 

Every  now  and  then  Demachy  bursts  out  in  a 
fury.     "Drink!"  he  cries,  *'I  want  a  drink!" 

Nobody  has  any  left  now,  not  a  drop.  Yester- 
day I  bought  a  cup  of  coffee  for  forty  sous,  but 
to-day  the  seller  preferred  to  keep  it  all  for  him- 
self. There  is  a  well,  nevertheless,  in  the  village: 
round  it  are  lying  some  fifteen  men.  The  Boche 
snipers  are  on  the  watch,  perched  up  on  top  of  a 
wall;  they  wait  till  the  comrade  who  has  devoted 
himself  to  the  task  arrives  with  all  his  water- 
bottles  slung  over  his  shoulder,  and  they  bring  him 
down,  taking  careful  aim,  like  a  head  of  game. 
Now  a  sous-lieutenant  has  been  posted  at  the 
entrance  to  the  trench,  and  he  prevents  any  one 
from  passing.  No  one  now  goes  for  water  except 
by  night. 

*'I  tell  you  I'm  going,  I  am!"  bellows  Sulphart. 
...  "I'd  rather  take  the  chance  of  being 
brought  down  than  peg  out  Hke  this.  I  feel  I'm 
going  dotty.   .    .    ," 

"You're  not  going  there;  you'll  get  killed," 
says  Lemoine  to  him. 

Then  it  is  on  him  that  Sulphart  turns  his  fury. 

"Naturally  you  don't  care  a  hang,  you  hump  of 
cow-dung !    You're  not  thirsty.     It's  not  the  cus- 


288  Wooden  Crosses 

torn  to  drink  in  the  fields ;  you  are  broken  in  to  not 
drinking,  at  the  tail  of  a  plough,  you  Parisian  in 
wooden  shoes!     You  pig-stufTer!   .    .    ." 

*'If  you  were  as  thirsty  as  all  that,"  says 
Lemoine  logically,  "you  wouldn't  shout  so 
much.   ..." 

Then  we  all  sit  down  again  with  our  backs 
against  the  wall,  and  wait.  Making  war  is  nothing 
more  than  that:  to  wait.  Wait  for  the  relief, 
wait  for  letters,  wait  for  the  soup,  wait  for  the 
dawn,  wait  for  death.  .  .  .  And  all  that  ar- 
rives, at  its  appointed  hour:  it  suffices  simply 
to  wait.    .    .    . 


Somebody  sharply  jerked  up  our  canvas  cover- 
ing, flinging  a  handful  of  daylight  into  the  vault. 

''Come  quick,  Breval  is  wounded." 

Demachy  got  on  his  feet.  He  was  sleeping  with 
a  veil  tied  over  his  face,  on  account  of  the  flies. 

"Eh,  what!     Breval?" 

And  without  taking  off  his  flowered  veil,  that 
still  exhaled  the  perfume  of  rice-powder,  he  ran 
towards  the  chapel  where  the  rockets  are  stored, 
into  which  the  corporal  has  been  dragged. 

He  is  wounded  in  the  breast :  a  shrapnel  bullet. 
Lying  down,  with  his  head  on  the  altar  step,  he 
looks  at  the  boys  with  eyes  of  uneasy  distress,  with 
wide  eyes  full  of  fear.  Catching  sight  of  Gilbert, 
he  made  a  motion  of  his  head,  like  a  greeting. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  you  know." 


In  the  Garden  of  the  Dead     289 

Demachy,  with  quivering  hands,  untied  his  veil. 

"That's  handy,  that  business  of  yours,"  said 
Breval.  "With  these  bitches  of  flies  nobody  can 
sleep.  The  boys  were  wrong  to  make  game  of 
you." 

Suddenly  full  of  weariness  he  shut  his  eyes.  In 
spite,  of  the  first-aid  dressing,  a  brown  spot  is 
widening  on  his  overcoat.  He  has  it,  and  soundly 
too.  All  at  once  his  lip  has  fallen,  and  he  has 
begun  to  cry  like  a  child,  to  weep  and  to  sob,  with 
a  dolorous  plaint  under  his  convulsive  tears. 

Gilbert  lifted  his  head  to  take  it  on  his  arm,  and 
leaning  over  him  spoke  to  him  in  a  choking  voice. 

"What's  the  matter.  .  .  .  You've  not  gone 
off  your  head.  You  mustn't  weep,  don't  get 
notions  into  your  mind;  come  now.  You're 
wounded,  that's  nothing.  On  the  contrary  it's 
a  bit  of  luck.  They'll  take  you  off  to-night  to  the 
dressing  station  and  to-morrow  you'll  be  lying 
in  a  bed." 

Without  reply,  without  opening  his  eyes,  Breval 
went  on  steadily  weeping.  Then  it  was  assuaged, 
and  he  said : 

"It  is  my  poor  little  girl  that  I  am  weeping  for." 

He  looked  at  Gilbert  for  a  good  minute  still 
without  speaking,  then — seeming  to  make  up  his 
mind  he  said  to  him  in  a  half  whisper : 

"Listen,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something, 
something  for  you  alone;  it  is  a  commis- 
sion.  ..." 

Gilbert  would  have  stopped  him,  talked  to  him 


290  Wooden  Crosses 

about  the  pleasant  consolation  of  being  sent  down 
from  the  line,  would  have  deceived  him.  But 
he  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I'm  done  for.  I  would  like  you  to  do  a 
commission  for  me.  You'll  swear  to  me,  eh? 
You  will  go  to  Rouen ;  you  will  see  my  wife.  .  .  . 
You  will  tell  her  that  it's  ill  done,  what  she  has 
done.  That  I  have  suffered  too  much.  I  can't 
tell  you  everything,  but  she  has  played  the  fool 
with  an  assistant  she  took  on.  You  will  tell  her 
that  she  mustn't,  won't  you,  for  the  sake  of  our 
little  girl.  .  .  .  And  that  I  forgave  her  every- 
thing before  I  died.  You'll  tell  her,  won't 
you?   ..." 

And  he  began  afresh  to  weep,  silently.  Nobody 
said  a  word.  We  all  of  us  looked  at  him,  leaning 
over  him  as  we  might  over  an  opening  tomb.  At 
last  he  ceased  to  weep,  with  only  a  faint  moan,  and 
was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  his  teeth  clenched, 
and  sitting  up  on  his  elbows,  with  a  fierce  eye,  he 
snarled : 

"And  after  all  no!  I  won't.  .  .  .  Listen, 
Gilbert,  in  the  name  of  the  good  God,  I  ask  of 
you  to  go  to  Rouen.  You  must  go  to  Rouen! 
.  .  .  You  swear  to  me  you  will  go.  And  you 
will  tell  her  she  is  a  bitch,  do  you  hear,  you  will 
tell  her  that  it  was  through  her  that  I  have  been 
killed.  .  .  .  You  must  tell  her  that.  .  .  . 
And  you  will  tell  it  to  everybody,  that  she's  a 
filthy  trollop,  that  she  was  leading  the  gay  life 
while  I  was  at  the  front.    ...     I  curse  her,  do 


In  the  Garden  of  the  Dead     291 

you  hear,  and  I  wish  she  may  die  like  me,  with 
her  Johnny.  .  .  .  You  will  tell  her  that  I  spat 
in  her  face  before  I  died,  you  will  tell  her  .    .    ." 

He  pushed  out  his  thin  face,  terrible,  with  a 
little  red  froth  at  the  comer  of  his  lips.  Pale  and 
drawn,  Gilbert  tried  to  soothe  him.  He  had 
taken  him  round  the  neck  very  gently  and  wanted 
to  lay  him  down.  .  .  .  The  other,  quite  done 
and  powerless,  did  not  resist.  He  remained  for  a 
minute  or  so  inert  and  lifeless,  with  his  eyes  shut, 
then  big  tears  rolled  from  his  closed  lids. 

Leaning  over  him,  Gilbert  touched  his  forehead 
lightly  and  close  with  his  breath,  just  so  that  he 
felt  against  his  Hps  the  last  sweat  already  forming 
in  Httle  pearls  on  his  temples. 

"Come,  old  boy,  don't  weep,"  he  repeated  in  a 
voice  hoarse  with  the  tears  he  kept  back,  .  .  . 
"Don't  cry,  you  are  only  wounded." 

And  he  caressed  with  almost  fiHal  tenderness 
the  poor  thin  head  that  went  on  weeping.  Breval 
murmured  still  lower : 

' '  No  ...  for  the  sake  of  the  Httle  girl  .  .  . 
better  not  say  all  that  to  her.  .  .  .  You  will 
tell  her  she  must  be  wise  and  straight,  mustn't 
she,  for  the  sake  of  the  child  .  .  .  that  she  must 
give  her  happiness,  not  a  bad  example.  You  will 
tell  her  she  must  sacrifice  herself  to  the  child.  You 
will  tell  her  that  I  asked  this  of  her  before  I  died, 
and  that  it  is  a  hard  thing  to  die  like  that.   .    .    . " 

The  words  rolled  from  his  mouth,  very  gently, 
as  his  tears  rolled.     In  the  comer,  his  head  in  his 


292  Wooden  Crosses 

bended  arm  Sulphart  was  sobbing.  Lieutenant 
Morache,  who  had  been  informed,  was  Hvid.  He 
did  his  best  to  control  himself,  but  we  could  see 
his  lips  and  his  chin  quivering. 

Breval  moved  no  longer:  nothing  could  be  heard 
but  his  short  hissing  breathing.  But  suddenly 
he  sat  up  with  a  jerk  in  Gilbert's  arms,  as  if  he 
was  trying  to  get  up,  and  wringing  his  hand  hard 
he  groaned  chokingly. 

"No  .  .  .  no.  ...  I  want  her  to  know 
...  I  have  had  too  much  distress.  .  .  .  You 
will  tell  her  she's  a  bitch,  you  will  tell  her.    .    .    . " 

He  could  hardly  speak  now,  he  had  to  stop  ex- 
hausted. His  head  fell  back  a  clumsy  load  on 
Gilbert's  arm,  whose  coat  was  now  being  soiled  with 
blood.  Paler  than  the  dying  man,  he  was  cradling 
him  in  his  arms  and  gently  wiped  his  mouth,  on 
which  the  froth  came  up  to  burst  in  little  pinkish 
bubbles.  Breval  still  tried  to  open  his  eyes,  his 
too  heavy  Hdded  eyes,  and  was  fain  to  speak  still : 

*' Little  girl  happy  .  .  .  mustn't.  .  .  .  You 
will  tell  her,  eh   .    .    .   you.   ..." 

His  prayer  died  out  unsaid,  as  the  last  conscious 
look  flickered  and  wavered  in  his  piteous  eyes. 
And  as  if  he  had  fancied  he  could  still  save  a  mo- 
ment of  life  for  him  by  hiding  him  from  Him  that 
carries  away  the  dead.  Gilbert  clasped  liim  close 
to  his  breast,  his  own  cheek  against  his  cheek,  his 
own  hands  under  his  shoulders,  and  his  own  tears 
falling  on  his  forehead. 


In  the  Garden  of  the  Dead     293 

* '  They  are  attacking ! ' ' 

Gilbert  and  myself  have  leaped  up  with  one 
accord,  deafened.  Our  blind  hands  hunt  for  the 
rifles  and  pluck  away  the  spread  of  canvas  that 
covers  the  entrance. 

''They  are  in  the  sunk  road!" 

The  cemetery  is  bellowing  with  grenades,  it 
flames,  it  crackles.  It  is  like  a  madness  of  fire  and 
uproar  suddenly  bursting  out  upon  the  night. 
Everybody  is  shouting.  Nobody  knows  anything ; 
no  one  has  any  orders:  they  are  attacking,  they 
are  in  the  sunk  road,  that  is  all.   .    .    . 

A  man  runs  past  in  front  of  our  hole,  and  down 
he  goes  as  if  he  had  tripped  on  something.  Other 
shadow  figures  pass,  run,  advance,  give  back.  From 
a  ruined  chapel  red  rockets  shoot  up,  calling  for  the 
barrage.  Their  day  seems  to  be  on  us  all  at  once; 
great  wan  stars  burst  above  us,  and  as  though  in 
the  glare  of  a  lighthouse  you  can  see  spring  up 
phantoms  that  rush  about  among  the  crosses. 
Hand  grenades  are  bursting,  flung  on  all  sides.  A 
machine  gun  slips  under  a  tombstone  like  a  snake 
and  begins  to  shoot,  with  rapid  fire,  sweeping  the 
ruins  like  a  scythe. 

**They  are  in  the  road,"  repeat  various  voices. 

And  clinging  flat  against  the  sloping  bank,  men 
keep  on  hurling  grenades,  without  ever  stopping 
for  a  moment,  from  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 
Men  are  firing  over  the  parapet,  without  ever 
dreaming  of  taking  aim.  All  the  tombs  are  open, 
all  the  dead  have  risen,  and  still  blind  they  are 


294  Wooden  Crosses 

slaying  in  the  dark,  without  seeing  anything,  they 
are  slaying  either  the  night  itself  or  else  men. 

Everything  stinks  of  powder.  The  white 
rockets  as  they  fall  send  fantastic  shadows  scamp- 
ering over  the  bewitched  cemetery.  Close  by  me 
Maroux  is  hiding  his  head  and  firing  between  two 
sandbags  from  which  the  earth  is  trickling  away. 
A  man  is  walking  among  the  stones,  like  a  worm 
that  has  been  cut  in  two  by  a  stroke  of  the  spade. 
And  other  red  rockets  still  go  up,  seeming  to  cry 
out:  ''Barrage!  barrage!" 

The  torpedoes  are  falling  in  volleys,  smashing 
everything  in,  crumbling  everything.  They  come 
in  salvoes,  and  it  is  just  like  a  peal  of  thunder  that 
reverberates  five  times. 

"Fire!  fire!"  yells  Ricordeau,  who  is  not  to  be 
seen. 

Stupefied,  dazed,  we  reload  the  Lebel  that  bums 
our  fingers.  Demachy,  his  own  satchel  already 
emptied,  has  gathered  up  the  grenades  from  a 
fallen  comrade  and  is  flinging  them,  with  the  large 
sweeping  gesture  of  a  slinger.  In  the  uproar  you 
can  hear  cries,  groanings,  without  giving  heed  to 
them.  There  are  certainly  some  poor  fellows 
who  have  been  buried  under.  For  a  moment 
two  rockets  disclose  a  long  dead  man,  lying  out 
on  a  tombstone,  at  full  length,  like  a  man  of 
stone. 

In  a  storm  our  own  barrage  at  length  arrives,  and 
a  red  hedge  of  time-fused  shells  splits  the  night 
with  a  noise  of  thunder.     The  shells  follow  one 


In  the  Garden  of  the  Dead     295 

another,  mingling  their  paths  in  the  air  and  forge 
an  iron  hedge  above  us.  Percussion  shells  and 
timed  shells  plant  themselves  in  a  fury  before  our 
lines,  barring  the  road,  and  covered  with  plumes 
of  rockets,  clattering  with  shells,  the  cemetery 
seems  to  belch  with  flames.  From  one  parapet  to 
another  the  men  run  without  knowing  what  they 
are  doing,  stumbling,  pushing  one  another.  Many 
go  down,  heavy  of  head,  bent  double,  and  always 
the  tombs  vomit  up  others,  whose  silhouettes  are 
always  discovered  by  the  shrapnel  and  the  rockets 
that  hem  them  in. 

In  the  centre,  before  the  impassive  saint,  the 
torpedoes  fall  like  pickaxe  blows,  slashing  to 
pieces  the  soldiers  under  the  tombstones,  smashing 
the  wounded  at  the  foot  of  the  crosses.  In  the 
tombs,  upon  the  broken  stones  they  groan,  they 
drag  themselves  about.  Someone  is  knocked  over 
beside  me  and  seizes  my  leg  in  a  furious  grip  while 
he  breathes  in  a  hoarse  death  rattle. 

The  hurried  slamming  blows  hammer  up  on  the 
nape  of  the  neck.  It  is  falling  so  close  that  you 
go  all  anyhow,  blinded  with  the  bursts.  Our 
shells  and  their  shells  join  and  do  yelling  battle 
together.  You  can  no  longer  see,  can  know  noth- 
ing now.     It  is  red,  and  smoke,  and  uproar.   .    .    . 

What,  is  it  from  the  Boche,  or  from  the  seventy- 
five  firing  short?  .  .  .  The  pack  of  fire  sur- 
rounds us,  tears  at  us.  The  smashed  crosses 
riddle  us  with  whistling  spHnters.  .  .  .  The 
torpedoes,  the  grenades,  the  shells,  even  the  tombs 


296  Wooden  Crosses 

are  bursting,  everything  is  blown  up ;  it  is  a  volcano 
in  full  burst.  The  night  in  eruption  will  crush  us 
all  to  nothingness. 

Help !  Help !  Men  are  being  murdered ! 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  HOUSE  WITH   THE  WHITE   BOUQUET 

Dinner  has  just  come  to  an  end.  How  cosy  and 
comfortable  we  should  be  if  only  they  were  hold- 
ing their  tongues.  The  yellow  light  of  the  candle 
is  dancing  in  an  empty  bottle.  There  is  a  little 
wine  still  in  the  bottom  of  the  cups,  a  pale  gold 
wine,  a  little  cloudy,  that  makes  the  fingers  sticky, 
and  goes  caressingly  down  the  throat.  In  the 
fire-place  great  thick  beams  are  burning  and 
crackling  the-^nselves  away. 

Leaning  over  a  smoking  basin,  red  of  face,  and 
glistening  with  sweat,  Sulphart  is  absorbed  in 
preparing  our  mulled  wine.  He  has  rolled  up  his 
sleeves  up  to  his  elbows  and  opened  his  shirt  wide 
over  his  hairy  chest.  At  his  left  side  are  hanging 
six  safety  pins  stuck  in  like  brooches,  the  only 
badge  that  was  never  stolen  from  the  soldiers. 
Lemoine  is  setting  in  front  of  the  fire,  on  a  billet 
of  wood,  his  huge  useless  hanging  hands  placidly 
joined  between  his  knees,  and  he  is  watching  his 
pal,  carrying  on  with  a  little  whistling  noise  that 
sounds  perfectly  meaningless,  but  in  which  Sul- 
phart being  a  very  touchy  fellow,  divines  criticism. 

'*  Don't  imagine  you  can  teach  me  how  to  mull 
297 


298  Wooden  Crosses 

wine,  no,  you  herring  skin!"  he  jeers  with  a  touch 
of  sourness.  ' '  I  say  and  I  hold  that  to  sweeten  it 
you  must  add  two  cups  of  water  to  the  litre  of  wine 
and  stick  in  five  proper  lumps  of  sugar  to  the 
cupful." 

''That's  too  much,"  replies  Lemoine  quietly. 
"You  don't  taste  the  wine  then." 

''Don't  taste  the  wine  then!"  he  says. 

But  instead  of  flying  into  a  rage,  Sulphart 
simply  shrugs  his  shoulders,  as  if  he  was  benevo- 
lently allowing  himself  to  be  insulted  with 
impunity. 

"I  prefer  not  to  argue,  here;  you  start  turning 
nasty  at  once/' 

Lemoine  makes  no  answer.  He  spits  into  the 
fire  and  ponders  over  things.  The  wine  begins  to 
sing  in  the  basin. 

The  walls  of  the  farm  are  very  old,  dumpy,  and 
blackened.  The  window  is  filled  with  small  panes 
covered  with  dust  which  the  moonlight  passed 
through  in  a  hesitating  way.  Wonderful  great 
cobwebs,  that  you  might  fancy  are  grey  velvet, 
hang  down  from  the  roof  in  which  an  enormous 
beam  of  chestnut  wood  is  warping.  All  the  war 
and  all  the  life  of  the  fields,  all  that  is  held  in  this 
dark  room,  expressed  by  certain  incongruous  objects 
lying  about  casually  in  it,  earthenware  on  a  bandy- 
legged chest,  cartridges  in  a  jar,  sacks  of  nobody 
knows  what,  rifles  in  a  row,  helmets,  a  great 
winnowing  fan. 

Huddled  up  on  a  little  milking  stool  Broucke  is 


House  with  the  White  Bouquet  299 

roasting  his  legs,  watching  the  steam  rising  out  of 
his  blue  trousers,  which  he  has  put  to  dry  over  the 
fire-place  with  Maroux'  linen. 

"I'll  be  able  to  sleep  better,"  he  explains  to  our 
new  corporal.  "The  lice  won't  chew  my  stomach 
any  more." 

At  the  big  table — an  old  carpenter's  bench  all 
hacked  about,  with  a  plank  across  two  baskets  by 
way  of  a  chair — the  squad  was  finishing  its  meal, 
in  a  clatter  of  noise.  One  comrade  was  eating  as 
he  stood,  lapping  off  his  tin  plate.  Down  on  his 
knees  another  was  splitting  up  some  wet  wood, 
rainy  autumnal  branches  that  burned  with  big 
volumes  of  smoke. 

Brutally  thrust  in,  the  door  opened,  letting  the 
cold  night  enter  like  an  intruder. 

"The  distributions,  my  lads!"  cried  fat  Bouf- 
fioux.     *  *  Who  is  coming  with  me  ? " 

"I'm  going,'*  replied  Maroux. 

"I'm  with  you,"  said  little  Belin  getting  up. 

"Don't  forget  to  come  back,  I  say,"  cried  Sul- 
phart  to  the  cook,  "if  you  don't,  look  out  for  your 
skin.    You — promised  to  stand  the  drinks." 

The  door  shut  again,  and  our  intimate  snug- 
ness  seemed  suddenly  better,  the  warmth  more 
agreeable. 

*'You  might  think  you  were  at  your  own  fire- 
side," murmured  one  fellow  happily. 

Rare  moments  when  happiness  comes  to  pay 
us  a  visit,  like  a  friend  that  we  had  never  hoped 
to  see  again.     Rare  moments  when  you  remember 


300  Wooden  Crosses 

you  had  once  been  a  man,  had  once  been  a  master, 
the  most  powerful  of  all :  your  own  master.  A  fire 
flaming  nobly,  a  table,  a  lamp — there  is  the  whole 
past  returning. 

One  of  the  last  comers  having  wiped  his  hands 
on  his  corduroy  trousers,  delicately  slipped  a 
photograph  out  of  his  dog's-eared  little  book  of 
military  papers. 

"She's  a  little  darling,  eh?  That's  my  wife- 
she  wasn't  eighteen  when  I  married  her." 

"You  have  better  taste  than  she  had,"  said 
Sulphart  to  him. 

"Who  has  been  taking  your  place  while  she's 
been  a  grass  widow?" 

Broucke  began  to  laugh.  But  a  little  spasm 
made  the  comrade's  mouth  twitch,  and  almost 
stuttering  he  replied: 

"Don't  talk  rot.  I'm  all  off  any  humbugging 
about  that  kind  of  thing.  If  you  were  a  married 
man  you'd  understand." 

"I  am  married,"  said  Sulphart  with  a  swagger- 
ing air.  "Only  I'm  not  jealous;  mine  shows  what 
she  feels  by  sending  me  parcels." 

The  others  had  each  and  all  brought  out  a 
photo,  from  a  well-worn  pocketbook  or  a  soldier's 
Httle  portfolio,  greasy  with  sweat.  They  passed 
them  round  from  hand  to  hand,  awkward  por- 
traits of  nice  looking  girls  all  in  their  Sunday 
finery,  and  housewives  in  black  dresses,  clasping  to 
them  the  small  boy  with  the  carefully  tied  necktie. 

At  the  big  table  they  were  squabbling  noisily 


House  with  the  White  Bouquet  301 

over  the  dessert — tasteless,  dusty  biscuits  that 
were  a  contribution  from  Gilbert.  They  were 
drinking  somewhat  copiously.  In  front  of  the 
fire  little  Belin  was  spinning  a  yarn. 

*'It  was  a  lot  of  fellows  that  had  died  in  the  field 
hospital.  Didn't  you  see  the  coffin  of  the  fourth? 
The  blood  had  run  out  through  and  had  stained 
the  flag.     That  was  the  sergeant,  that  one  was." 

They  drained  cupful  after  cupful,  their  faces 
lighted  up. 

*'You  remember  the  day  they  knocked  old 
father  Hundred's  face  in.  Thirty  litres  among 
eight!     Pretty  well  full  everybody  was.*' 

"And  the  new  adjutant,  a  Corsican  ..." 

Sulphart  and  Lemoine,  who  had  divided  the 
mulled  wine,  were  exchanging  reminiscences  at 
the  very  top  of  their  voices  as  if  they  had  been 
confessing  to  the  whole  farm. 

**They  were  all  howling,  'Don't  shoot!  Eng- 
lish comrades ! '  And  then  all  at  once,  pif ! — ping ! 
ping !     It  was  the  Boches — Ah,  the  dirty  dogs !  * " 

"And  I  was  going  forward.  I  was  holding  my 
satchel  in  front  of  me  as  if  that  could  stop  a  bullet. 
What  silly  asses  you  are  at  those  moments?" 

Demachy  was  listening  to  them  as  he  drank  in 
the  hot  breath  from  his  mulled  wine.  At  that 
moment  we  could  hear  the  noise  of  heavy  feet 
galloping  in  the  yard,  and  Bouffioux  came  in 
puffing  and  blowing. 

"Eh,  boys,"  he  said,  throwing  down  his  bag  full 
of  lentils  on  the  big  table,  "we're  going  to  have 


302  Wooden  Crosses 

some  fun.  I'm  going  to  stand  treat  in  a  shanty 
where  there  are  girls." 

Everybody  had  turned  towards  him,  allured  but 
mistrustful. 

"What?  You're  having  us  on.  .  .  .  No,  honest 
injun',  you're  trying  to  stuff  us  up." 

But  the  brightened  face  of  the  fat  fellow  from 
Normandy,  and  with  his  skin  stretched  tight  and 
radiant,  his  shining  eyes,  all  proved  that  he  was 
telling  the  truth. 

"Chickens  that  are  on,  rather,"  he  affirmed, 
"chickens  that  are  asking  for  it." 

"They'll  have  it!"  shouted  Sulphart. 

They  all  rose  up  tumbling  over  one  another, 
and  crowded  round  Bouffioux. 

*  *  It  was  big  Chambosse  at  the  baggage-master's 
that  gave  me  the  tip.  It's  a  crib  at  the  end  of  the 
old  town,  a  big  house  with  all  its  shutters  closed, 
as  you  might  expect.  And  so  that  you  can't  make 
any  mistake,  the  fillies  have  stuck  a  white  bouquet 
at  the  door." 

An  uproar  of  laughter  and  cries  broke  out. 
Their  flesh  kindled,  they  got  ready  to  go  out  hur- 
riedly and  dug  each  other  in  the  ribs  with  chaffing 
and  fooling.  Feverishly  Broucke  pulled  his 
trousers  on  again,  rolling  his  flannel  belt  like  a 
rope  round  them  all  wet  as  they  were,  without 
smoothing  it  out  of  its  folds. 

"Don't  go  without  me,"  he  implored. 

"On  patrol  lads,"  bellowed  Sulphart,  already 
certain  he  was  going  to  captivate  all  the  girls. 


House  with  the  White  Bouquet  303 

Gilbert  alone  remained  calm.  He  deemed  to 
mistrust  the  whole  affair. 

' '  I  know  that  fellow,  Chambosse,"  he  said  to  me, 
"a  rogue,  a  leg  puller.  He  probably  wanted  to 
make  a  hare  of  that  big,  fat  idiot." 

But  the  others  were  already  fixed  up  to  go. 

"Aren't  we  going  to  wait  for  Maroux?" 

All  of  them  protested,  in  a  hurry  to  get 
there. 

"Ah,  no,  let's  get  along  there  quick,  often  they 
have  too  many  people  there.  He'll  come  along 
after  us." 

We  set  off.  The  earth  frozen  hard  in  that 
November  night  rang  under  our  feet  like  a  hollow 
box.  The  sky  itself  seemed  to  be  frozen,  a  great 
wide  sky  of  dull  tin,  speckled  with  gold.  In  the 
neighbouring  barns  men  were  singing  in  chorus. 
Through  a  window  with  broken  panes  I  caught 
sight  of  some  faces  lit  up  with  brutal  clearness  by  a 
lantern,  and  in  the  dark  background  of  the  room, 
shadow  shapes  dancing  to  the  strains  of  an  ac- 
cordeon.  In  front  of  the  mayor's  house,  squat- 
ting round  a  bonfire,  there  were  machine  gunners 
cooking  a  hot  mess  in  a  dixie. 

"Where  are  you  off  to?" 

"On  a  reconnaissance,"  replied  Sulphart,  who 
was  hurrying,  well  on  in  front. 

We  were  strung  out  in  Indian  file,  like  a  relief 
going  through  the  communication  trenches.  We 
were  playing  at  war,  knowing  nothing  else. 

"Not  so  fast  up  there  in  front,"  cried  Belin. 


304  Wooden  Crosses 

Pass  down  the  word,  the  third  company  is  not 
following." 

"Look  out  for  the  wire!" 

Sulphart  was  imitating  the  harsh  crow's  voice  of 
the  commandant. 

"You  do  get  lost  here,  in  this  confounded  sector, 
you  do  get  lost.     Orderly  here.    .    .    ." 

The  moonlight  fell  like  fine  dust  on  the  fields, 
and  laid  the  shadows  of  the  trees  down  on  the 
white  highway.  The  night  had  unmoored  the 
trees  anchored  to  the  soil,  and  we  could  see  them 
take  the  ocean,  on  the  infinite  mist.  Over  yonder 
the  weary  guns  were  barking  no  longer.  We  be- 
gan to  sing.  Broucke  was  our  guide  without 
knowing  where  to.  Gilbert  and  I  both  came 
behind,  linked  arm  in  arm. 

En  revenant  de  Montmartre, 

De  Montmartre  a  Paris. 

J'recontre  un  grand   prunier   qu'   ^tait   couvert   de 

prunes 

Voil^  rbeau  temps. 

We  were  singing  at  the  top  of  our  voices  as 
though  we  had  it  in  mind  to  spend  our  brutal, 
animal  joy  in  mere  noise. 

VoiU  rbeau  temps 
Ture-lure-lure, 
Voil^  rbeau  temps 
Pourvu  que  9a  dure. 
Voil^  rbeau  temps  pour  les  amants. 


House  with  the  White  Bouquet  305 

"Don't  shout  like  that,"  Maroux  said  to  us — he 
had  just  come  up  with  us,  running,  "we'll  all  get 
pinched." 

"That's  right,"  approved  Lemoine,  who  was 
following,  dragging  his  great  lazy  feet,  "and  if  the 
chickens  hear  that  kind  of  bellowing,  it'll  be 
midday  before  we  get  in." 

Obediently  we  choked  down  our  joy  into  big 
bursts  of  subdued  laughter. 

"I'm  in  form,"  confessed  Sulphart. 

*  *  Appears  the  mistress  of  the  place  is  a  ripping  dark 
girl,"  explained  Bouffioux,  "a  real  fine  woman." 

"I've  seen  her,  I  have,"  cned  Broucke,  "she's 
got  a  pair  of  eyes  as  big  as  a  plate.   .    .    . " 

"Ah,  well,  if  it's  that  one  we'll  have  lots  of 
fun.    ..." 

We  were  arriving  at  the  edge  of  the  coimtry, 
where  the  farmhouses  were  spaced  out.  Some 
dark  object  took  shape  crouched  up  on  the  side  of 
the  road. 

"A  sentry,"  exclaimed  Maroux. 

The  soldier,  an  old  Territorial,  eyed  us  as  we  ad- 
vanced, without  moving  a  muscle,  propped  up  on 
his  rifle.  A  comforter  that  was  wrapped  round 
him  up  to  the  eyes  muffled  his  voice. 

"You  haven't  got  the  password,"  he  asked  us. 
"It's  Clermont r 

We  went  by  quickly,  all  but  running,  and 
presently  through  the  thin  night  we  could  perceive  a 
big  white  building,  painted  by  the  moon,  with  all 
its  shutters  closed. 


306  Wooden  Crosses 

"There  it  is." 

We  approached  with  soundless  feet.  Yes,  there 
it  was  indeed,  and  a  white  bouquet  was  fixed  over 
the  doorway.  Everybody  saw  it  at  the  same 
moment  and  a  murmur  of  deHght  gave  thanks  to 
Bouffioux. 

"I'm  going  to  hammer,"  said  Sulphart  all  of  a 
twitter. 

He  knocked.  We  listened,  hardly  venturing  to 
breathe,  crowding  close,  elbow  against  elbow. 
Broucke  gave  a  little  laugh  like  a  hen  clucking. 
Sulphart  with  his  ear  glued  to  the  panel  of  the 
door  signed  to  us  to  be  quiet.  We  heard  someone 
walking  inside,  then  a  key  turned  in  the  lock  and 
the  door  opened  a  little  showing  as  it  were  a  strip 
of  light.  For  a  second  we  caught  a  gHmpse  of  a 
handsome  woman's  face,  very  pale,  with  hair  in 
smooth  black  bands.  Then  straightway  the  door 
was  closed  again  brutally. 

"That's  her,"  Broucke  had  cried,  having  seen 
nothing  at  all  of  her  but  her  eyes,  her  beautiful 
big  eyes. 

"What's  going  on?"  asked  Bouffioux  in  amaze- 
ment. 

And  we  stayed  there  dumbfounded,  disap- 
pointed in  front  of  the  fast  shut  door.  Nobody 
could  understand. 

"She's  crazy,  the  wench,"  growled  Sulphart 
ready  to  fly  in  a  rage. 

"Hi,  inside  there.   ..." 

And  he  banged  on  the  door. 


House  with  the  White  Bouquet  307 

*' They're  not  going  to  leave  us  out  in  the  yard 
.    .    .  no." 

Lemoine,  who  kept  in  the  background,  his  hand 
stuck  in  his  pockets,  silently  wagged  his  head. 

"She  guessed  there  were  a  lot  too  many  of  us," 
he  judged.  ''Some  of  us  ought  to  have  taken 
cover." 

"That's  no  reason  for  not  opening,"  raged 
Sulphart. 

And  brutally  he  banged  harder  still  on  the  door 
with  his  clenched  fist.  There  was  no  answer  of 
any  kind. 

"No,  now  I'd  train  that  one  with  a  stick  if  I  was 
in  civilians  again,"  he  muttered  through  his 
clenched  teeth. 

Lemoine  was  still  hoping.  He  could  not  believe 
that  this  warm  happiness  he  had  so  much  desired 
had  so  quickly  fled  away. 

"No,  kid,"  he  murmured,  "she's  coming  back." 

"We've  got  plenty  of  stuff,"  cried  Bouffioux, 
who  understood  the  heart  of  woman. 

Lemoine,  at  all  risks,  shouted  out  the  word  for 
the  night,  "Clermont!  Clermont!"  thinking  that 
perhaps  no  one  was  admitted  into  the  house  except 
soldiers  in  due  form. 

Everybody  according  to  his  own  notion  started 
to  shout  something,  thinking  to  persuade  the 
women  to  open. 

'  *  Hi,  little  girls,  we've  come  to  give  you  a  song ! 
Open  the  door  for  us,  come  on,  we've  got  our 
pennies.     We'll  buy  champagne." 


3o8  Wooden  Crosses 

Plucking  the  strings  of  an  imaginary  mandolin, 
Sulphart  began  to  sing  a  serenade  under  the 
lighted  windows. 

Si  je  chante  sous  ta  fen^tre 

Ainsi  qu  'un  galant  troubadour.  .  .  . 

Another  was  drumming  louder  against  the  door 
in  a  regular  rhythm  to  the  cry  of  "Let-us-IN 
.  .  .  let —  us  —  IN,"  while  Broucke  was  cover- 
ing himself  with  scratches,  trying  to  clamber  up 
walls  as  far  as  the  closed  Venetian  blinds.  Still 
no  one  was  opening.  So  then  we  all  began  to 
sing  in  chorus : 

Si  tu  veux  faire  men  bonheur. 

Marguerite.     Marguerite. 

Si  tu  veux  faire.  .  .  . 

Women  should  love  music.  The  door  opened 
again,  this  time  it  stood  wide  open. 

"Ah,"  cried  our  band. 

It  was  like  a  long  cry  at  a  gala  of  fireworks 
when  the  first  rocket  goes  up.  And  we  rushed 
forward.   ... 

The  dark  beauty  was  standing  back  holding  up 
her  lamp  so  as  to  throw  the  light  on  us.  They 
wanted  to  go  in  all  at  once,  and  bumped  and 
squashed  each  other,  laughing.  Having  been  the 
first  to  break  his  way  in,  Sulphart  was  already 
thrusting  out  his  hands  greedily.  The  woman 
pushed  him  back. 


House  with  the  White  Bouquet   309 

**  You  are  coming  to  have  a  good  time/'  said  she 
in  a  hard  voice  that  amased  me;  *'  do  you  want  to 
look?  ,  .  .  Here»  it*s  a  pretty  sight,  well  worth 
looking  at  ,    ,   ,** 

And  with  a  hard  brutal  gesture  she  pushed  open 
a  door. 

In  the  great  room,  cold  and  bare  a  single  wax 
light  kept  vigil  near  a  little  iron  bed.  A  diild  was 
lying  on  it,  all  in  white,  its  frail  hands  clasping 
on  its  tiny  breast  a  big  black  crucifix.  A  sprig  of 
boxwood  was  steeped  in  a  saucer.  Without  ev^ 
a  cry^  stricken  with  fright,  the  squad  swirled  bade 
and  away.  .   >   . 

It  is  the  custom,  in  this  countryside,  to  place  a 
bouquet  at  the  door  of  a  house  wfixare  a  child  has 
died. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

love's  own  words 

The  rain  was  lashing  both  the  mud  and  the  men. 
You  did  not  see  it,  but  you  could  hear  it  hailing 
down  its  gusts  on  the  sodden  earth  and  drenched 
soaking  overcoats. 

The  black  night  hid  everything,  a  thick  night, 
with  no  sky  visible,  no  horizon,  and  the  last  mess 
parties  leaving  the  trench  had  nothing  to  guide 
them  but  the  stifled  buzzing  and  humming  of  voices. 
The  men  were  going  on,  their  eyelids  screwed  up, 
their  cheeks  frozen  cold.  The  wind  whistled  in 
their  ears,  a  lost  wind  that  could  find  nothing  to 
shake,  neither  branches,  nor  things  of  any  kind. 

Around  the  travelling  kitchens  the  squads  came 
flocking  and  pressing.  Soldiers  were  cowering 
underneath  the  carts  like  beggars  in  doorways  and 
porches.  The  first  to  be  served  were  bumping 
each  other,  holding  out  their  plate  or  their  bottle. 
The  rain  was  getting  in  solid  lumps  into  the  open 
boiler,  and  the  man  from  the  last  squad,  who  was 
trampling  in  a  regular  pool,  grumbled  as  he  pushed 
at  the  others. 

"It  soon  won't  be  a  stew  we'll  be  getting,  it  will 
be  just  soup." 

310 


Love's  Own  Words  311 

Standing  on  his  cart  like  a  wretched  booth  owner 
of  a  country  fair  who  insists  on  going  through  his 
parade,  a  cook  was  brandishing  a  great  cross  made 
of  white  wood,  and  brand  new. 

"Isn't  the  seventh  here?"  he  was  shouting. 
"Who  was  it  ordered  a  cross?" 

He  was  growing  excited,  seemed  to  be  offering  it 
like  a  token  for  a  lottery.  The  men  asked  one 
another  questions. 

"They've  got  somebody  killed  in  the  seventh?" 

"Yes,  Audibert,  a  torpedo.  They  buried  him 
in  the  sunken  road." 

Rain  streaming  from  them,  their  trousers  glued 
to  their  thighs,  they  splashed  about  as  they  chatted. 
Several  were  leaning  over  the  gurgling  cask  and 
watching  the  distribution  of  the  wine.  Sulphart 
kept  watch  for  a  good  minute  over  the  distribution 
of  his  rolls  of  bread,  sodden  and  sticky,  spitted  on 
to  his  cane,  then  he  left  the  group. 

"You  take  the  letters,  Demachy.  I'm  going 
to  get  the  drink." 

The  letters.  That  was  all  that  Gilbert  had  come 
for.  He  had  asked  to  be  allowed  to  go  on  the 
mess  fatigue — four  hours  to  go  and  return  in  the 
sticky  glue  of  the  mud  in  the  communication 
trenches — to  make  sure  of  getting  Suzy's  letter, 
to  hunt  for  it  himself  in  the  quartermaster's  pile ; 
it  was  now  five  days  since  he  had  last  had  anything 
from  her,  five  nights  that  he  had  been  raging  at 
his  loophole  against  the  baggage-master,  the 
quartermaster,  the  cooks,  all  the  people  that  must 


312  Wooden  Crosses 

of  course  have  stolen  his  letters.  This  evening 
unable  to  contain  himself  any  longer,  he  had 
volunteered  to  go  on  the  ration  fatigue. 

Several  times  he  stopped  the  old  re-enlisted 
soldier  who  was  hurrying  from  the  cask  to  the 
cooking  carts,  supervising  the  cooks. 

"Are  there  any  letters  for  me?" 

But  the  quartermaster  had  no  time. 

At  length,  the  wine  having  been  distributed,  he 
came  and  took  shelter  under  a  cart  and  brought 
out  his  letters  from  a  sack,  tied  up  in  bundles 
according  to  the  squads.  At  once  all  the  scattered 
shadows  loomed  up  through  the  night  and  fell 
into  groups. 

The  letters !    The  letters ! 

The  circle  buzzed  and  drew  closer  round  the 
cart,  the  first  ranks  down  on  their  hams,  the  others 
between  the  wheels.  Everybody  wanted  to  be  as 
near  as  possible  so  as  to  hear  the  better.  This 
was  the  best  of  all  rations  that  was  now  about  to  be 
given  out,  all  the  happiness  to  be  got  for  twenty- 
four  hotirs.  Lighted  by  a  pocket  electric  torch, 
whose  beam  w^as  muffled  under  a  cap,  the  quarter- 
master read  none  too  well.  All  hstened  with  hands 
and  heart  outstretched  towards  him. 

"Here!  .    .    .     Here!  ..." 

Every  man  as  soon  as  he  had  his  packet  in  his 
hands,  quickly  looked  for  his  own  letter  with  his 
wet  fingers,  and  in  spite  of  the  thick  darkness,  in 
spite  of  the  blinding  rain  he  recognized  it  immedi- 
ately, by  its  mere  shape,  only  by  the  feel  of  it. 


Love's  Own  Words  313 

The  bag  was  rapidly  emptied.  A  murmur  of  dis- 
appointment rose  up. 

"Well,  and  what  about  us  then?  .  .  .  Aren't 
there  some  for  me?  Are  you  sure,  have  you 
looked  carefully?"  , 

Those  who  had  got  nothing  went  away  out  of 
heart,  and  to  ease  themselves  of  their  impotent 
anger  they  were  eyeing  the  quartermaster  with  a 
nasty  look  as  if  they  had  really  suspected  him  of 
throwing  their  letters  away. 

"Don't  you  worry,  he  gets  his  own  alright,  he 
does." 

Gilbert  was  happy.  As  he  took  his  bundle  he 
had  at  once  recognized  Suzy's  big  envelope  stick- 
ing out  beyond  all  the  others.  A  little  wave  of 
happiness  went  up  to  his  head. 

Now  that  he  had  his  letter  in  his  pocket  he  was 
no  longer  in  any  hurry  to  read  it,  he  did  not  wish 
to  expend  all  his  delight  at  one  go.  He  would 
taste  it  phrase  by  phrase,  slowly,  when  he  was  in 
bed  in  his  hole,  and  he  would  go  to  sleep  with 
their  sweetness  in  his  heart. 

In  the  field  of  shadows,  among  the  carts  sunk 
deep  in  the  mud  that  the  cooks  were  trundling 
along  by  the  wheels,  swearing  the  while,  men  were 
hailing  one  another.  Heavy  silhouettes  hooded 
under  bits  of  canvas,  sheepskins  rudely  fastened 
with  coarse  string,  strange  shadowy  forms  laden 
with  bags,  with  dishes,  and  with  water  cans.  To 
keep  the  stew  safe  they  were  covering  the  bottles 
as  well  as  they  could  with  a  lappet  of  an  overcoat. 


314  Wooden  Crosses 

the  corner  of  a  hood,  a  newspaper  turned  into  a 
lid.  Driven  by  gusts  of  wind,  the  rain  was  falling 
thicker  than  ever,  thicker  and  fiercer.  It  drummed 
on  the  helmets  and  slipped  down  necks,  in  spite 
of  the  handkerchief  tied  round  by  way  of  scarf. 
Everybody  was  shivering. 

''Off  we  go,  the  third.  ..." 

The  fatigues  were  starting  back  again,  company 
by  company,  in  long  staggering  files.  In  a  hum 
and  murmur  the  black  plain  emptied  itself  of  its 
shadowy  forms. 

The  mud  reached  up  to  mid-leg  in  the  communi- 
cation trench.  Water  ran  out  of  everything — out 
of  the  sodden  sticky  walls,  out  of  the  very  night. 
They  splashed  heavily  in  this  river  of  black  bird- 
lime, and  to"  avoid  being  wholly  stuck  in  the  mud, 
it  was  necessary  to  put  one*s  feet  exactly  in  the 
print  of  one's  predecessors,  and  walk  from  hole  to 
hole.  Nothing  could  be  heard  but  the  sucking 
clack  of  feet  wrenched  out  of  the  mire  and  the 
growlings  of  the  men  who  were  forced  to  walk 
sideways  on  account  of  their  burdens.  The  soft- 
ened wall  stuck  to  their  elbows,  and  lumps  of  mud 
fell  into  the  buckets  of  wine  or  the  stew  with  a 
disheartening  *'plop." 

The  farther  they  went  the  deeper  became  the 
river.  Hesitating  feet  would  search  for  a  solid 
patch  to  plant  themselves  on,  then  one  false  step 
and  the  man  would  slip  into  a  drainage  pit  up  to 
the  knees.  Then,  as  he  couldn't  possibly  get  any 
wetter  now  he  would  jerk  out  a  resolute  .    .    . 


Love's  Own  Words  315 

*'b "    and    set   off    again    straight    forward 

through  thick  and  thin  deliberately  going  into  the 
mire.  Chaff  now  began  to  mingle  with  the 
swearing. 

"I'm  going  to  ask  the  Colonel  to  fetch  my  wife 
here,  I  am." 

"I  say,  have  you  seen  in  the  papers  that  they 
can't  get  a  cab  now  in  Paris  coming  out  of  theatres 
at  night?" 

"Don't  lose  your  wool,  the  barometer  is  at  'set 
fair.'" 

Every  step  was  a  fresh  effort,  as  the  mud  kept 
sucking  down  the  clumsy  boots,  and  in  spite  of  the 
rain  they  had  to  stop  and  take  a  breather.  Their 
backs  humped,  their  hands  seeking  warmth  in 
their  pockets,  the  men  would  puff  and  pant.  The 
foreseeing  ones  never  forgot  their  cup,  it  passed 
from  hand  to  hand  and  everyone  dipped  up  a 
draught  of  wine  from  the  canvas  bucket,  or  indeed 
by  way  of  a  treat  they  would  drink  a  little  hot 
coffee  out  of  the  can. 

There  was  no  firing  going  on  in  the  trenches, 
they  were  too  much  benumbed  under  the  rain. 
Not  a  single  shell.  There  was  nothing  to  be  heard 
but  the  dull  striving  onward  of  the  fatigue  party. 
At  long  intervals  the  weary  troop  would  knock  up 
against  another  coming  in  the  opposite  direction, 
or  against  a  relief.  The  two  files  would  then 
struggle  front  to  front,  obstinate,  neither  willing 
to  give  way  to  the  other.  An  officer  in  a  lowered 
hood  kept  launching  orders  that  nobody  listened 


3i6  Wooden  Crosses 

to.  Insults  flew  busily  from  one  band  to  the 
other. 

"You  move  back  there  .  .  .  talk  about  a  set 
of  blighted  idiots  .    .    .   we're  loaded  up  .    .    ." 

"We  can't.  There  are  stretcher-bearers 
behind." 

A  wan  rocket  whose  light  was  thinned  and 
diluted  in  the  rain  disclosed  for  a  moment  a  fatigue 
party  laden  with  tools.  Then  it  all  melted  to- 
gether. Inlaid  in  the  wall,  legs  and  back  well  into 
the  mud,  the  men  passed  each  other  in  opposite 
directions,  with  a  confused  tumult  of  curses.  We 
set  off  again  with  growls  in  the  rear. 

"Not  so  fast,  in  front  there.  .  .  .  Send  the 
word  along  that  we're  not  keeping  up.   .    .    .  " 

At  the  next  turn,  the  blinded  column  suddenly 
came  to  a  halt  in  front  of  a  fresh  obstacle.  Only 
the  foremost  knew,  the  others  could  see  nothing 
but  the  line  of  bent  backs,  losing  themselves  in  the 
blackness.     Frozen  hands  laid  down  their  burdens. 

"Well,  then,  what  now?  Are  we  going  on 
again?" 

From  the  front  came  back  the  order: 

"Back  there  .  .  .  make  way  for  a  wounded 
man." 

The  ditch  choked  with  mire  was  barely  wide 
enough  for  a  stretcher,  and  it  was  necessary  to 
leave  the  way  clear  for  the  bearers.  The  tail  end 
of  the  fatigue  party  ebbed  back  with  a  great  fat 
splashing  of  violently  churned  mud,  as  far  as  the 
last  parallel.     Others  on  hands  and  knees  tucked 


Love's  Own  Words  317 

themselves  away  into  niches,  and  those  who  had 
no  holes  to  flatten  themselves  into,  placing  their 
bread  or  their  vessels  up  on  the  edge  of  the  com- 
munication trench,  hoisted  themselves  up  out  of  it, 
clutching  and  clambering  up  the  viscid  parapet, 
the  mud  of  which  gave  way  imder  the  palms. 
Exclamations  were  heard : 
"My  wine's  all  bunged  over  the  ground." 
Kneeling  on  the  edge  of  the  sloping  wall,  the  men 
watched  the  wounded  man  go  by.  Something 
stiff  under  the  dark  brown  blanket,  the  clumsy 
boots  sticking  out  from  under.  Haggard  and  pale 
of  face,  his  eyes  enormous,  his  Hps  shut  tight,  he 
did  not  speak  a  word,  nothing  but  a  hoarse  moan- 
ing when  the  bearers  knocked  the  stretcher  against 
something.  He  seemed  not  to  see  any  one,  as 
though  he  was  looking  within  himself  at  life  ebbing 
away.  His  hand  was  hanging  down  like  a  dead 
thing. 

Almost  crushed  under  their  burden,  the 
stretcher-bearers  toiled  and  strained  on,  skating 
and  slipping  in  the  mud,  and  as  the  dull  buzzing 
murmuring  noise  of  another  fatigue  was  coming 
nearer,  the  foremost  carrier  called  out  a  warning 
in  a  spent  voice: 

"Make  way.  .  .  .  A  wounded  man." 
It  was  necessary  to  wait  until  the  file  was  formed 
up  again  in  order  to  make  a  fresh  start.  The 
squads  were  hunting  for  one  another,  mere  voices 
lost  in  the  blackness  and  the  rain.  The  water  had 
burst  all  the  paper  lids  and  the  wet  streaming  down 


3i8  Wooden  Crosses 

from  the  walls  was  dropping  into  the  dishes.  From 
the  tail  voices  were  constantly  calling : 

"Not  so  fast  .   .   .  we're  not  keeping  up.  ..." 

But  the  rain  was  hunting  them  on  before  it, 
slashing  at  the  frozen  cheeks  and  they  went  on 
splashing  in  the  mud,  hearing  nothing  at  all,  seeing 
nothing  at  all,  spent  and  worn  out  links  in  the  long 
benunbed  file. 

At  the  Nancy  parallel  where  our  section  was  in 
reserve  the  fatigue  split  off  into  two  portions, 
Sulphart  having  put  down  his  skewerful  of  rolls 
and  his  dish  of  stew  went  from  hole  to  hole. 

"Grub,  boys,"  he  cried. 

At  the  same  time  as  his  voice  they  could  hear  the 
raging  rain.     Sleepy  growls  answered  him. 

'  *  You  can  stick  it  where  the  monkey.  .  .  !  You 
and  your  grub.  Good  Lord,  how  it's  coming  down. 
You'd  want  to  be  hungry!  " 

For  all  that  a  few  came  out.  In  a  narrow  shel- 
ter, level  with  the  earth,  a  candle  sprang  to  life. 
Squatting  down  they  filled  their  mess- tins,  and  you 
could  hear  them  eating. 

"I'm  going  to  take  my  cupful  of  wine,"  said 
Broucke. 

But  from  out  of  his  hole  Maroux  cries  out,  wak- 
ing up: 

"Pass  me  the  bucket  of  wine  and  the  brandy. 
I  don't  mean  any  one  to  touch  them.  I'll  share  it 
out  to-morrow  at  dawn." 

Gilbert  took  them  to  him  with  the  bundle  of 
letters,  and. then  scampered  off  to  his  own  hole. 


Love's  Own  Words  319 

He  bent  low  to  pass  under  the  sandbags  and  went 
leaping.  It  splashed  just  as  if  he  had  put  his  foot 
in  a  river.  In  spite  of  the  plank  he  had  set  up 
edgewise  to  make  a  barrier,  the  rain  had  penetrated 
into  his  shelter,  and  as  it  was  dug  with  a  slope,  it 
had  made  a  regular  little  pool  towards  the  en- 
trance. To  kneel  in  the  mud  once  again  in  order 
to  scoop  a  drainage  hole  with  a  trenching  tool,  to 
bail  it  out  once  more  with  his  bully-beef  tin,  to 
struggle  against  the  water  that  slips  in  all  the 
same.  ...  He  hadn't  courage  for  it.  So  much 
the  worse,  he  would  stay  lazy  instead  of  lying 
down  full  length. 

He  pulled  off  his  waterproof  coat  and  was  quite 
happy  at  finding  his  great-coat  dry.  But  in  the 
night  the  rain  was  drumming  and  pattering  and  he 
smiled  as  he  listened  to  it.  He  was  in  a  shelter; 
he  was  at  home;  nothing  to  do  but  read  his 
letter,  then  read  it  again,  then  go  to  sleep  with 
it. 

Having  unrolled  his  puttees — one  mass  of  mud — 
and  having  scraped  his  boots,  he  slid  his  soaking 
feet  into  two  little  sandbags  that  would  keep  them 
warm  for  him.  Then  he  rolled  himself  up  in  his 
blanket,  threw  his  glistening  rubber  coat  over  his 
knees  and  snufiEed  his  damp  candle.  Then,  with 
nothing  more  to  be  desired,  just  for  the 
moment.   .    .    . 

He  read : 

*'I  am  extremely  pleased  with  this  place;  the 
hotel  is  very  gay  and  jolly.     From  a  distance  you 


320  Wooden  Crosses 

can't  see  anything  but  its  red  roof;  the  mimosas 
hide  all  the  rest. 

**  By  the  way,  in  the  hotel  I've  come  across  a 
friend  of  mine  I've  told  you  about  before,  Marcel 
Bizot.  He  is  a  charming  boy  that  I  shall  be 
awfully  pleased  to  introduce  to  you,  after  the 
war. 

"We  often  go  out  together.  You  don't  mind 
that,  do  you,  my  own  big  boy?  I  like  better  to 
tell  you  about  it  myself,  because  there  are  idiots 
that  have  met  us,  and  I  think  they're  quite  up  to 
writing  nasty  things  to  you.  I've  been  to  Le  Mai 
Infernet  with  him.  Le  Mai  Infernet,  you  re- 
member.  .    .    ." 

Outside  a  relief  was  passing  by,  a  slow  rumble  of 
dull  noises.  The  water  was  always  streaming  at 
the  entrance  to  the  dug-out,  and  drop  by  drop  it 
dripped  weeping  into  the  pool. 

A  fresh  sweet  perfume  rose  up  from  the  letter — 
verbena.  Once  upon  a  time  she  used  to  pursue 
him  with  her  scent  spray  held  under  his  nose,  to 
frighten  him.  So  far  away  now,  the  time  of  per- 
fumes. And  yet,  so  near  to  his  heart.  .  .  .  with, 
aye,  a  thought  vague  and  wandering  he  listened 
to  the  rain  singing  its  dirge. 

Sulphart  lifted  the  canvas  and,  simply  spouting 
with  water,  jumped  down  into  the  hole. 

"Ouf!  That's  that.   .    .    .     You  had  a  letter?" 

**Yes,"  replied  Gilbert  in  a  far  away  voice. 

Was  he  thinking  ?  Motionless,  his  smile  as  of 
a  disappointed  child  hovering  at  the  corner  of  his 


Love's  Own  Words  321 

lips  he  was  looking  into  space,  far,  far  off,  with  an 
absent-minded  air. 

**Your  news  is  good?" 

The  rain  .  .  .  You  might  have  thought  a 
drop  of  rain  in  his  look  also. 

*' Yes,  good.  ..." 


CHAPTER  XV 

EN   REVENANT  DE  MONTMARTRE 

We  were  gazing  at  the  countryside  with  a  very 
heedless  eye:  in  Artois  or  in  Champagne,  in  Lor- 
raine or  in  Flanders,  whether  they  are  fringed  with 
elm  trees  or  with  pale  gold  fields,  with  bogs  or 
with  vines,  the  roads  are  all  the  same  to  the  rag- 
picker: dust  or  maybe  mud  that  leads,  by  hard 
stages,  from  rest  to  the  trenches. 

Leaning  out  of  the  back  of  the  lorries,  soldiers 
with  whitened  eyelashes  amused  themselves  cry- 
ing "Baa!  baa!"  and  the  convoy  went  clanging 
and  clattering  on  carrying  their  sheep  calls  along 
with  the  clamour.     Others  were  singing. 

This  roadway,  carrying  men,  always  men 
seemed  to  me  alive  with  an  infernal  life,  and  I 
fancied  I  could  see,  afar  off,  all  these  tributaries  of 
dust  that  inexhaustibly  feed  the  dried  up  bed  of  the 
great  nameless  river,  the  broad  Styx  of  stone  and 
smoke  where  seem  to  rest  all  the  world's  drowned 
on  a  silt  of  wreckage  and  tangled,  blighted  creepers. 

Behind  us  rose  up  the  black  buildings  of  a 
field  hospital,  and  by  way  of  appendage,  a  whole 
orchard  of  wooden  crosses.  They  stood  up 
straight  and  stiff  on  their  Httle  chalky  mounds, 

322 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  323 

correctly  in  line.  Eternally  ready  for  the  great 
Review,  and  a  little  farther  off  had  been  laid  to 
rest  the  *  *  tirailleurs,  *  the  colonials,  with  their  heads 
towards  Mecca,  watched  over  by  the  narrow 
board  shaped  to  a  pointed  arch. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  cemetery,  the  territorials 
were  at  work.  We  went  up  to  them,  without  think- 
ing of  anything,  simply  to  look  on.  It  was  graves 
they  were  digging,  a  whole  alley  of  graves.  Catch- 
ing sight  of  us  the  old  things  had  stopped  their  dig- 
ging, as  though  they  were  ashamed.  One  of  them, 
leaning  on  his  shovel,  gave  us  an  explanation  with 
an  embarrassed  air. 

"  It  is  orders,  you  see. . . .  Before  a  hot  bit  of  work 
it's  better  to  take  precautions  and  be  ready.  .  .  . 
The  last  time,  there  were  some  that  had  to  wait  for 
three  days;  luckily  it  was  the  winter  time." 

We  made  no  answer.  We  were  looking  at  our 
destined  holes.  .  .  .  First  of  all  of  us  Sulphart 
burst  into  indignation : 

"Ah,  no!"  he  exclaimed,  "this  trick,  it's  too 
much.  ...  To  let  us  have  this  for  a  movie 
show  before  going  up  again  to  the  butcher's,  that's 
simply  putting  it  across  a  fellow." 

And  like  a  shot  he  was  off  to  tell  the  com- 
mandant who  happened  to  be  passing  by  on  horse- 
back. We  had  just  time  to  see  him  come  to 
attention  and  say  two  words :  with  one  bound  the 
horse  was  up  the  bank.  Crimson,  choking  with 
wrath,  the  commandant  was  shouting  to  the 
frightened  oldsters : 


324  Wooden  Crosses 

**Will  you  get  to  hell  out  of  this?  .  .  .  Clear 
out,  I  tell  you,  or  I'll  get  my  poilus  to  chuck  you 
out  with  their  toe  in  your  rump.  .  .  Who  gave 
you  that  order?    I  order  you  to  tell  me  that ! " 

All  the  territorials  had  filed  off,  abandoning 
their  implements ;  there  was  nobody  left  now  but 
one  tall  old  man,  who  was  listening  with  his  head 
down,  contemplating  his  feet  turned  into  big  clods 
of  clay. 

**Are  you  deaf?  ...  I  want  to  know  who 
set  you  on  to  that  work?" 

"There  was  no  harm  meant,  Commandant," 
stammered  the  old  man  in  a  voice  like  an  old 
nanny-goat,  "it  doesn't  distress  me  at  all,  that  job, 
it*s  my  special  line.  I  am  a  sexton,  a  grave  digger 
in  civilian  life,  at  Prieure-sur-Claise,  by  Mezieres, 
Indre." 

All  the  while  he  was  speaking  he  was  pulling  at 
his  blue  coat  with  his  earthy  fingers,  as  though  he 
had  meant  to  make  it  come  down  below  his 
stomach.  Disarmed  from  his  anger,  the  com- 
mandant looked  at  him  with  a  kind  of  surly  pity. 

"  Come,  clear  out  of  it,"  he  said  with  a  shrug  of 
his  shoulders.     "I'll  see  about  this  myself." 

And  leaving  his  horse  there,  he  went  over  and 
disappeared  into  the  hospital,  from  which  the 
attendants  were  following  the  little  scene  while 
rolling  up  bandages. 

With  no  chaff  or  fooling,  our  hearts  gnawed 
with  discomfort,  we  rejoine'd  our  comrades  in  the 
field  where  they  were  having  a  simple  meal.    We 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre   325 

used  to  eat  in  little  groups,  always  the  same  men 
together :  those  who  were  always  having  big  parcels 
shared  with  the  chaps  that  had  as  big,  the  little 
parcels  ate  with  the  little  parcels,  and  those  who 
got  none  at  all  used  to  eat  by  themselves,  pooling 
their  poverty  to  buy  themselves  a  litre  of  wine. 
The  cutest  of  them  used  to  flatter  and  pay  court 
to  Gilbert,  knowing  that  he  was  never  particularly 
stingy,  and  readily  gave  a  share  of  his  tinned 
stuff  to  comrades  stuffed  and  fed  up  with  macaroni. 

Standing  behind  him  a  little  lean  fellow  with  his 
cheeks  peppered  with  freckles  said  to  him  with  a 
sly  air. 

"Ah!  that  was  playing  the  game  the  other  day, 
when  you  wouldn't  let  them  take  you  off  to  a  nice 
cushy  job,  when  yoirwouldn't  leave  the  rest  of  the 
boys.   .    .    ."         • 

Demachy,  lying  on  his  side,  was  nibbling  at  a 
straw.  Roughly,  without  even  turning  round,  he 
made  answer : 

*'No,  cut  that  out,  my  lad.  .  .  .  It  wasn't 
playing  the  game  at  all:  it  was  idiotic.  But  it 
pleases  me  now  and  then,  it  does,  to  do  idiotic 
things." 

A  week  before,  while  we  were  having  long  rest, 
one  of  his  cousins  had  come  to  see  him,  an  officer 
with  an  embroidered  armlet,  who  had  offered  to 
have  him  transferred  into  the  motor  transport. 

"Thanks,"  Gilbert  had  replied,  "but  as  far  as 
motors  go  I  only  drive  my  own." 

We  had  all  been  astonished,  and  Sulphart  him- 


326  Wooden  Crosses 

self,  who  nevertheless  would  have  been  a  heavy 
loser  if  Gilbert  had  gone,  had  sworn  at  him  for  a 
whole  evening,  shouting  like  a  deaf  man  that 
water  always  went  to  the  river  and  strokes  of  luck 
to  ''chaps  too  silly  to  know  how  to  work  them." 

To  me  Gilbert  had  made  his  confession : 

''The  pleasure  of  swanking,  you  may  know,  of 
landing  somebody  a  nasty  one  by  way  of  a  retort. 
...  It  was  most  of  all  for  that.  ...  I 
didn't  even  take  time  to  reflect,  it  just  slipped 
out  of  me  like  a  curse.  And  afterwards  I  couldn't 
go  back  on  it,  it  was  too  late.  .  .  .  Isn't  it 
stupid,  eh,  to  stake  your  life  for  a  word?  .  .  . 
But  really  and  truly  he  disgusted  me  with  his  nice 
laced  boots  and  his  straw-coloured  gloves." 

I  had  never  seen  him  drink  as  much  as  he  did  that 
night,  and  he  had  filled  fat  Bouffioux,  who  that 
same  day  had  been  sent  back  into  the  ranks,  his 
place  at  the  kitchen  being  taken  by  a  mason  who 
had  three  children. 

Our  walk  in  the  cemetery  and  the  discovery  of 
the  empty  graves  had  completely  and  finally  over- 
whelmed the  sometime  cook,  whose  morale  was 
already  very  low.  Nothing  more  than  his  way  of 
wagging  his  head  and  repeating,  "I'm  afraid 
they're  too  much  for  us.  .  .  ."  would  have 
taken  the  heart  out  of  a  crack  regiment.  He  re- 
counted the  incident  to  Gilbert,  exaggerating  the 
number  of  the  holes,  and  Sulphart  could  find 
nothing  to  add  except  this  comforting  assurance : 

"I  swear  to  you  there  won't  be  any  jostling, 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  327 

everybody  will  be  able  to  find  room  to  settle  down 
comfortably.   .    .    .     Ahl  les  tantesf 

As  he  ate  Bouffioux  said  little,  and  from  time  to 
time  put  uneasy  queries  which  gave  away  the 
grounds  of  his  meditation. 

"In  your  opinion,  is  it  really  as  bad  as  that,  as 
sectors  go  ?  Do  the  stretcher-bearers  do  their  duty 
properly  where  there's  tough  work  going  on? 
...  Is  it  certain,  anyway  that  we've  got  to 
attack?  ...  In  your  opinion  how  many  fel- 
lows can  get  bowled  over  in  a  business  of  that 
kind?" 

To  reassure  him,  Maroux  made  answer: 
^     * '  Perhaps  a  bit  more  than  half ;  one  never  knows. ' ' 

Bouffioux,  now  instructed,  asked  nothing  fur- 
ther. He  drank  his  coffee — the  mason's  coffee — as 
clear  as  small  beer  and  the  same  colour,  and  lying 
on  his  back,  he  gave  himself  up  to  meditation.  I 
heard  him  sigh. 

*'If  only  we  knew  for  certain  that  prisoners 
would  be  well  treated.    .    .    ." 


Groping  and  silently  the  battalion  left  the 
Adrian  barracks,  where  we  had  been  sleeping  for 
half  a  night,  and  the  companies  of  shadows  lined 
up  along  the  road. 

"No  one  missing  ...  no  one  missing,"  an- 
swered the  corporals  to  the  roll-call  of  their  squads. 

When  his  turn  came  Maroux  answered : 

"Bouffioux  missing.    ...     He  went  to  wake 


328  Wooden  Crosses 

the  adjutant  at  the  farm  opposite  there.  I'll  go 
and  fetch  him." 

He  went  into  the  big  dark  yard,  bogged  himself 
in  the  dung-heap,  cursed  as  he  knocked  into  a  for- 
gotten harrow,  and  called  blindly  into  the  dark- 
ness. 

* '  Hi !  Bouffioux !   .    .    .     Where  are  you  ? ' ' 

He  heard  a  sort  of  cracking  at  his  back,  from  the 
level  of  the  roof,  and  a  falling  mass  just  grazed  his 
shoulder  and  fell  sprawling  on  to  the  dung- 
heap  with  a  soft  thud,  dragging  down  the  ladder 
from  the  loft,  which  fell  fiat  on  to  the  stone 
pavement. 

Maroux  had  made  a  startled  leap  to  one  side, 
then  he  sprang  upon  the  man  who  was  getting  up 
half -stunned  and  dizzy. 

"Have  you  broken  anything?'* 

**No,  nothing  .  .  ."  chattered  a  frightened 
voice. 

"What!   .    .    .    That's  you,  Bouffioux?" 

"Yes,"  stammered  the  other,  still  trembling 
violently ;  "  I  missed  my  step ;  I  missed  the  rung 
of  the  ladder." 

"But  what  were  you  messing  about  up  there 
for?" 

"Well  ...  I  thought  the  adjutant  some- 
times  ..." 

The  corporal  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  had 
understood. 

"That's  all  right.  .  .  .  Pick  up  your  rifle 
and  your  pack.   .    .       Come  on.     But  don't  you 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  329 

ever  try  this  game  again,  do  you  follow  me,  I'm 
not  going  to  have  any  scandals  in  my  squad.  .  .  .  ** 

They  rejoined  the  column,  which  was  now  form- 
ing up,  and  Maroux  called  out :  ' '  Nobody  missing." 

We  got  into  a  wet  road  the  stiff  clay  of  which 
clogged  our  feet.  In  the  darkness  we  could  divine 
from  the  clinking  of  weapons  the  other  troops 
going  forward  or  coming  back.  The  guns  were 
growling,  indefatigably,  without  any  single  salient 
outburst,  with  a  continuous  rumble,  and  from  in- 
visible slopes,  red  lightnings  answered  one  another. 
The  road  jolted  along,  more  and  more  hummockey 
at  every  step ;  then  every  trace  of  it  disappeared ; 
it  lost  itself  in  a  wilderness  of  rough  stones.  Not 
as  much  as  a  communication  trench  even  in  this 
smash-up ;  winding  tracks  with  dead  men  for  land- 
marks. 

The  relief  snaked  its  way  along  in  complete 
silence.  Companies  met  us,  going  the  other  way 
through  the  gloom,  with  such  gaps  in  their  half- 
seen  files  that  we  were  appalled.  A  smell  of 
powder,  of  acid  and  of  dead  bodies  steamed  up 
from  this  ground  that  seemed  gnawed  by  some 
horrible  animal.  At  long  intervals  there  could 
be  discerned  the  stooping  silhouettes  of  stretcher- 
bearers  in  harness,  striking  across  the  plain. 

We  marched  for  a  full  hour,  we  passed  through 
ruins  from  underneath  which  we  could  hear  talk- 
ing, we  clambered  up  a  road  filled  with  pebbles  on 
which  our  heavy  hobnailed  boots  kept  skidding; 
and  then,  harassed  and  worn,  we  had  a  breather. 


330  Wooden  Crosses 

Quite  close  to  us,  scantily  protected  by  a  bank 
hastily  thrown  up,  there  was  a  battery  of  seventy- 
fives.     Their  vicinity  strongly  displeased  Sulphart. 

"To  make  us  halt  just  beside  a  pack  of  guns, 
that's  just  one  of  Morache's  bright  ideas.  Like 
that,  if  Fritz  takes  it  in  his  head  to  start  firing  it 
will  be  for  our  mugs." 

As  we  got  under  way  again  the  snoring  of  a  shell 
coming  to  the  end  of  its  breath  bent  us  all  double : 
it  burst  right  in  front  of  the  guns  with  a  nasty 
soft  noise. 

"Gas  shells!" 

Our  hands  fumbled  feverishly  at  our  gas  masks. 
Our  lips  tight  shut,  our  whole  breast  walled  up 
against  the  foul  thing,  we  quickly  slipped  on  our 
cowls.  Noisily  the  helmets  rolled  clattering  down. 
Other  shells  were  bursting,  and  their  red  torch  lit 
up  for  a  moment  that  terrifying  troop  of  divers 
out  of  their  element  seeking  a  thicker  night  to 
plunge  into. 

We  marched  quickly.  By  the  light  of  the  burst- 
ing shells  I  divined  upon  the  slope  a  melancholy 
smash-up  of  human  bodies,  of  stones,  of  tatters 
of  every  sort,  of  broken  weapons.  Then  the  mask 
was  misted  over  and  hid  everything  from  me.  I 
was  suffocating  under  my  gag,  my  lungs  burning, 
and  feeling  at  my  temples  the  irritating  trickHng 
of  sweat.  The  relief  filed  on  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, blinded,  groping,  and  got  into  a  wide 
communication  trench.  Men  were  squatting 
down  and  eating  in  it.     We  took  our  masks  off. 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  331 

** Don't  be  afraid,"  ragged  the  boys,  pulling 
their  legs  up  to  leave  us  room  to  get  past,  **  they're 
stink-balls!  ...  If  you  put  your  veils  on  for 
everything  you  won't  have  time  even  to  eat  a  bite, 
they're  letting  us  have  them  all  day  long." 

Fatigues  were  passing,  parties  laden  with  stakes, 
corrugated  iron,  tools,  cobwebs  of  barbed  wire 
that  grappled  our  packs  and  refused  to  let  go. 

Bowed  to  the  ground  under  their  load,  jostled, 
panting,  the  men  would  growl  curses  at  us  just  to 
relieve  their  feelings,  as  they  would  have  sworn  at 
their  boxes  of  rockets,  their  bags  of  grenades,  or 
the  drums  of  wire  netting,  that  made  them  like 
circus  riders.  Sometimes  the  roadway  would 
widen,  coming  up  almost  to  the  level  of  the  fields, 
then  timidly  it  would  bury  itself  again  between 
two  walls  of  disembowelled  sandbags.  Farther 
on,  it  overflowed  afresh,  making  a  kind  of  exten- 
sive cross-roads,  and  all  the  time  could  be  guessed, 
in  these  dark  places,  a  strange  moving  to  and  fro 
of  silent,  shadowy  shapes.  Soldiers  were  coming 
out  from  their  communication  trenches,  others 
arriving  down  the  tracks,  all  leaning  forward 
like  men  tugging  barges,  and  at  first  it  was  impos- 
sible to  understand  what  were  those  long  bundles 
they  were  dragging  along  at  the  end  of  their 
tautened  ropes.     They  were  dead  men. 

Stretchers  ?  .  .  .  There  were  barely  enough  for 
the  wounded,  and  then  dressing-stations  were 
highly  reluctant  to  lend  theirs.  And  so  they  used 
to  drag  along  by  the  feet  all  the  bodies  gleaned 


332  Wooden  Crosses 

through  the  fields ;  they  used  to  drag  them  along  by 
a  rope,  like  the  disembowelled  horses  at  a  bull 
fight,  and  then  they  were  piled  up  in  a  long  sap, 
one  on  top  of  another,  face  to  the  stars,  feeling 
upon  their  piteous  faces  the  eternal  earth  trickling 
down,  flowing  from  burst  sandbags  as  though  from 
so  many  hour  glasses. 

The  ditch  was  already  full,  and  two  men  on  their 
knees  were  pressing  down  the  corpses,  heaping 
them  closer  together,  to  make  room  for  others. 

Captain  Morache  had  halted  the  column  and 
the  order  came  down  to  us,  murmured  hardly 
above  a  whisper. 

"Fix  bayonets." 

The  company  lined  up,  facing  the  enormous 
tomb.  A  distant  rocket  made  a  fugitive  light- 
ning run  gleaming  along  the  hedge  of  bayonets. 

"To  the  soldiers  dead  on  the  field  of  honour. 
.    .    .     Present  .    .   .  arms!" 

Every  rifle-butt  clattered  with  one  single  move- 
ment, then  nothing  more.  Bodies  rigid,  heads 
up,  we  looked  on,  dumb,  with  our  teeth  clenched: 
soldiers  have  no  other  offering  to  make  but  their 
silence. 

"Ground  .    .    .  arms!" 

The  company  set  off  again  and  left  the  road 
which  now  came  up  out  of  the  earth,  seeming  to 
continue  in  a  track.  A  man  was  jumping  up  and 
down  clumsily,  wearing  his  blanket  by  way  of  a 
hood  and  cloak. 

"No  one  is  to  pass  that  way,"  he  warned  us  in  a 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  333 

sleepy  voice,  "it's  strictly  forbidden.  You  must 
take  the  other  track;  that  one  is  registered  on." 

The  new  sous-lieutenant  to  whom  he  addressed 
himself  looked  at  the  huge  forge  of  gloom  in  which 
lightnings  sprang  out  here  and  there,  under  the 
blows  of  the  sledge-hammer. 

"But  it  doesn't  look  as  if  it  was  dropping  along 
there  more  than  anywhere  else,"  he  observed. 

The  man  continued  to  beat  the  ground  with  his 
heavy  dance,  his  hands  deep  in  his  armpits  and 
his  face  shrouded. 

"I  don't  say  no,"  he  replied,  his  voice  lost  under 
his  blanket.  "I'm  only  here  to  tell  you  it's  for- 
bidden, I  am  .  .  .  Now  let  anybody  that  wants 
to  go  that  way  go  that  way.  Naturally  as  you  may 
well  think  I  don't  give  a  blow,  not  me." 


This  brand-new  trench  was  lined  with  fresh  earth 
like  a  common  grave.  Maybe  it  was  just  to  save 
a  little  time  that  we  had  been  sent  into  it  alive. 

The  men  we  were  relieving  had  dug  it  in  two 
nights,  disinterring  heaped  up  bodies  with  every 
stroke  of  the  pickaxe,  and  in  places  fragments  of 
human  frames  were  sticking  out  of  the  wall.  On  a 
hobnailed  foot  that  came  boldly  out  Sulphart  had 
hung  his  satchels,  and  the  machine  gunners  had 
planted  their  weapon  on  the  swollen  belly  of  a 
German,  one  of  whose  arms  was  hanging  down, 
and  with  only  a  thin  envelope  of  friable  earth  hid- 
ing him.     In  that  hole  there  lay  heavy  on  the  air 


334  Wooden  Crosses 

the  acrid  and  sweetish  smell  of  a  dangerous  marsh. 
The  entrance  to  two  German  dug-outs  had  been 
laid  open.  The  stair  of  one  had  been  smashed  up, 
its  props  pulped  by  a  torpedo.  On  a  board  at  the 
entrance  somebody  had  written  by  way  of  epitaph : 

"here  ARE   GERMAN   SOLDIERS" 

In  the  other  dug-out  one  half  of  the  section 
could  sleep  while  their  comrades  took  the  watch. 

It  had  begun  to  rain  again,  a  thick  driving  rain 
that  slashed  down  in  gusts,  sticking  your  soaked 
coat  on  to  your  back.  With  his  handkerchief 
knotted  about  his  neck  to  stop  the  water,  Gilbert 
was  coughing.  As  the  general  had  forbidden  the 
wearing  of  waterproofs  on  pain  of  prison,  he  had 
had  to  abandon  his  and  had  caught  cold.  To  keep 
themselves  from  the  rain,  some  of  the  men  had  cut 
out  of  their  oilskin  sleeping-bags  canary  yellow 
chasubles,  which  they  tied  on  with  strings.  Others 
made  themselves  hoods  of  their  tent  canvas, 
soaked  through  in  an  instant.  Lemoine  who  had 
no  fears  except  for  his  broken  boots,  had  pulled  on 
by  way  of  a  sort  of  snow-boots,  two  brand-new  sand- 
bags that  came  up  to  mid-leg ;  and  standing  up  on 
those  big  wide  elephant  feet  he  remained  standing 
on  a  board  with  the  resigned  back  of  an  old  heron, 
both  hands  in  his  pockets.  As  for  little  Broucke, 
insensible  to  everything,  with  his  ill -buttoned  coat 
letting  the  water  stream  in  on  his  thin  chest,  he 
was  sleeping  bolt  upright  as  he  stood,  alongside  the 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  335 

sticky  wall  of  the  trench,  his  elbow  held  up  by  the 
boot  of  the  Prussian  coming  out  through. 

The  explosions  were  not  so  loud,  muffled  by  the 
rain,  the  light  of  the  rockets  was  thinned  and 
diluted  in  that  moving  pond,  and  the  shell -bursts 
were  seen  as  through  a  veil.  Not  a  single  shot 
was  fired :  the  two  lines,  face  to  face,  watched  each- 
other,  rancorous  and  resigned. 

As  we  had  taken  over  the  watch,  Ricordeau, 
who  since  he  had  been  made  adjutant  no  longer 
dared  to  sleep,  for  fear  of  Morache,  came  to  choose 
men  for  the  listening  post.  This  was  a  hole  in 
front  of  ours,  with  no  less  water  and  a  few  more 
bombs,  rifle  **  turtledoves "  which  could  be  recog- 
nized by  their  dull  sounding  start,  etc.,  and  which 
landed  with  a  whistle. 

Taking  the  first  comers  at  random,  avoiding 
finding  himself  caught  up  among  the  complication 
of  the  ' '  turns ' '  in  which  watchers  and  fatigues  were 
confounded  without  cancelling  one  another,  the  first 
to  go  for  soup  being  the  last  to  go  on  patrol,  so  that 
is  was  impossible  to  tell  anybody  off  for  a  duty 
without  drawing  a  protesting  outcry  from  every- 
body. Ricordeau  recruited  his  watchers.  We 
saw  them  push  their  way  into  an  embryo  sap,  then 
move  off  crawling,  on  hands  and  knees,  trailing 
their  rifles  in  the  mud. 

"Hi!  old  man,"  said  Gilbert  to  the  one  who  was 
last  to  go  out,  "try  to  bring  in  the  wounded  man 
they've  left  out  in  front  there.  .  .  .  You  can 
hear  him  crying  still,  the  poor  devil." 


336  Wooden  Crosses 

"We'll  have  a  shot  at  it." 

This  wounded  man  was  lying  out  no  one  knew 
exactly  where,  lost  in  that  great  funereal  field.  At 
regular  intervals,  as  if  he  had  each  time  had  to 
steel  himself  up  for  a  fresh  effort,  he  would  call  out : 

"Sergeant  Brunet,  of  the  seventh.  ...  To 
me,  mates.   .    .    .     Don't  leave  me !  .    .    ." 

Then  his  voice  would  be  silent,  exhausted.  Our 
ears  would  be  strained,  but  we  could  hear  nothing 
more,  only  the  wavering  noise  of  rain  and  wind, 
now  swelling,  now  dying  away. 

Under  my  arms  laid  flat  along  the  parapet  the 
very  earth  was  shivering,  pounded  without  respite. 
But  just  in  front  of  us  they  were  not  actually 
"saucepanning  "  now.  On  our  left  we  could  catch 
a  muffled  hurly-burly  of  a  relief  going  on :  a  com- 
pany of  ours  was  just  arrived  and  the  others  who 
had  their  packs  on  their  backs  for  a  long  time 
were  hurriedly  making  off.  The  newcomers  were 
growling. 

"Just  one  dug-out  and  it's  the  third  that  have 
collared  it.  .  .  .  Always  the  same  lot  that 
manage  to  get  what's  going.  .  .  .  The  other 
chaps  can  always  go  and  burst  themselves." 

Shelterless,  without  a  hole  to  cower  down  into, 
those  of  them  that  weren't  on  watch  squatted 
down,  their  backs  humped  under  the  tent  canvas, 
and  chin  on  knee  they  tried  to  sleep. 

A  little  flame  spurted  up  from  a  lighter;  the  rain 
quenched  it  at  once.  It  broke  out  again,  and  was 
blown  out  on  the  instant. 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  337 

"Light  there!**  growled  an  irritated  voice. 

In  no  way  intimidated,  the  man  obstinately 
persisted,  no  doubt  wanting  to  light  his  pipe. 
Three  times,  four  times  the  little  will-o'-the-wisp 
sprang  up.  Then  I  saw  a  shape  get  up  and  push 
against  the  others  to  get  up  to  the  smoker. 

"You're  not  crazy,  are  you?  .  .  .  Don't  you 
know  it's  against  orders  to  show  a  light?  .  .  ." 

"You've  got  the  wind  up  for  fear  they'll  spot 
you?"  replied  the  man  in  a  voice  that  took  me  by 
surprise. 

"  Hold  your  tongue !   .    .    .   I  tell  you.   .    .    ." 

"Ah!  cut  it  out,  my  lad,  cut  it  out,"  returned 
the  other  placidly,  with  the  same  lazy  good-for- 
nothing  voice  I  thought  I  knew. 

"Do  you  know  who  you're  talking  to?  .  .  . 
First  of  all  stand  up  when  you  answer  me.** 

"  I  say,  you  try  it  on  somebody  else,  you're  mak- 
ing me  sick." 

"I  am  your  adjutant." 

" Nothing  shocking  in  that.   .    .    .** 

"Adjutant  Rouget.   ..." 

"And  I'm  Vieuble,  a  soldier  of  the  second-class, 
by  favour,  military  medal  and  Croix  de  guerre. 
...  If  the  Boches  don't  like  the  light,  I  don't 
give  a  .    .    . " 

"Ah!  Vieuble  come  back  again,"  cried  Lemoine 
in  delight. 

We  slipped  quickly  along  to  his  corner,  where 
still  down  on  his  hams  he  was  listening,  without 
moving,  to  the  adjutant,  a  real  good  fellow,  who 


338  Wooden  Crosses 

was  addressing  to  him  by  way  of  punishment  a  few 
disjointed  remarks  on  the  proper  prudence  that 
should  be  observed  in  the  front  Hne,  and  the  respect 
due  to  superior  officers,  without  which  "every- 
body would  be  in  command,  everybody  would  do 
just  as  he  pleased,  and  we  would  be  about  as  fit 
to  carry  on  the  war  as  a  herd  of  pigs." 

"Hi!  Vieuble,  aren't  you  going  to  say  'how  do 
you  do'  to  your  pals?" 

The  Parisian  lifted  his  head  and  recognized  us 
all  at  once. 

"Ah, the  old  slackers !  .  .  .  Ah !  aren't  I  pleased 
to  find  you  again.  ...  I  thought  you  were  all 
dead  or  evacuated,  the  boys  in  the  company  hadn't 
the  wits  to  tell  me  anything.  .  .  .  We  turned 
up  by  way  of  reinforcements  this  morning ;  we're 
being  chucked  into  the  trenches  in  the  evening. 
You  might  say  they're  not  losing  much  time. 
.    .    .     Ah!  I  am  pleased.     And  Sulphart?" 

Some  of  our  neighbours  growled  out : 

"  Not  so  loud,  son  of  a  ..." 

Vieuble  slipped  along  behind  us  as  far  as  our 
corner  of  the  sap.  Staring  into  every  face  in  the 
darkness,  he  looked  for  the  old  crew. 

' '  What  about  it,  cKtimi,  eh  ?  Here  we  are  again. 
.  .  .  Ah,  Bouffioux,  you  bad  big  girl,  what  are 
you  up  to  there  ?  .    .    .   andBelin?" 

"Evacuated.  .  .  .  He  got  gassed.  .  .  .  You 
knew  Breval  got  killed,  and  it's  Maroux  that  is 
our  corporal  now.  .  .  .  Berthier  was  marked 
missing  in  Argonne." 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  339 

"A  good  lad ;  that's  a  pity.  And  so  it's  Morache 
that's  gone  up  captain.  Lord,  what  we've  got 
to  put  up  with.  .  .  .  No  matter,  there  aren't  so 
many  of  your  old  lot  left  now." 

We  were  all  crowded  together  at  the  entrance  of 
the  dug-out,  sitting  on  the  muddy  steps.  Sulphart, 
down  at  the  back  was  getting  up  a  hot  brew,  hav- 
ing brought  nothing  in  his  pack,  neither  cartridges, 
nor  linen,  nor  biscuits,  so  that  he  could  carry  along 
two  bottles  of  rum,  which  he  had  carefully  packed 
in  among  knitted  socks. 

*'Well,  and  down  in  the  rear  there,  they're 
taking  things  easy?" 

*'You  may  say  so.  Three  months  in  hospital, 
in  a  mansion  that  was  a  regular  palatial  palace. 
Nothing  to  do  but  let  them  wash  your  feet  for  you ; 
as  much  jam  as  ever  you  want,  the  real  proper 
good  life,  what!  .  .  .  And  us,  too,  that  was 
nothing  at  all,  it's  the  English  you  ought  to  see. 
If  you  saw  that:  officers  always  on  the  lookout; 
nice  new  soldiers  that  buy  themselves  everything 
that  takes  their  fancy,  blokes  in  petticoats  that  go 
to  drill  playing  the  fife.  The  girls  are  all  sweet  on 
them,  I'll  only  say  that  much:  You  can  be  sure 
that  those  boys  aren't  clamouring  to  change  their 
sector.  And  their  wounded,  if  you  could  see 
them!  A  topping  blue  coat,  very  tasty,  a  white 
shirt  and  a  red  tie.  Very  tasty,  you  know, 
and  clean,  you  couldn't  imagine  they've  been 
through  it." 

"And  ours?    Are  there  a  lot  of  them?** 


340  Wooden  Crosses 

**A  handful.  At  the  hospital  where  I  was,  it 
was  never  anything  but  crammed;  .  .  .  only 
us  fellows,  we  were  got  up  with  any  old  cast-off 
duds,  jackets  too  big,  coats  too  short,  old  over- 
coats :  I  swear  you  had  to  be  a  real  handsome  boy 
to  wipe  the  Tommy's  eye.  .  .  .  The  only  thing 
we  had  on  our  side  was  that  we  could  talk.  .  .  . 
We  got  herded  together  according  to  the  kind 
of  wound  we'd  got — it  would  make  you  split! 
The  fellows  that  had  lost  an  arm  or  had  their 
heads  chipped,  they  go  about  in  bands,  because 
their  wound  doesn't  stop  them  walking,  they 
can  get  along  quick  enough.  But  us  ones,  with 
game  legs,  they  make  us  a  crew  by  ourselves.  I 
had  only  to  go  on  two  sticks,  I  had,  but  the  rest — 
one  had  a  foot  missing,  or  a  bit  of  a  leg,  and  that 
makes  you  melancholy,  that  sound  of  a  crutch 
knocking  on  the  pavement,  you  can't  imagine. 
.  .  .  The  civilians  don't  notice  it  any  more  now 
they  say  that  now  they've  got  used  to  it.  The 
boys  have'nt  got  used  to  it,  you  can  be  sure  of  that. 
...  I  had  a  companion  who  had  the  lower 
part  of  his  phiz  carried  away,  he  didn't  dare  to 
show  himself,  he  was  ashamed  to.  .  .  .  By  the 
way,  he  was  a  fellow  out  of  the  269th,  the  ones  that 
went  in  with  us  at  Carency." 

Having  swallowed  a  good  mouthful  of  the  hot 
rum,  he  gave  his  thanks : 

"That  warms  you  up.  Good  old  Demachy 
still  looks  well  after  his  little  Mary,  I  can  see 
that." 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  341 

Sulphart  was  stooping  over  and  trying  to  read 
the  future  in  the  bottom  of  his  cup. 

"And  the  war,"  he  asked,  "when  is  that  going 
to  finish  off?" 

Vieuble,  before  he  answered,  was  taken  with  a 
fit  of  loud  laughter. 

"Ah!  this  delay.  .  .  .  You  don't  fancy  they 
ever  talk  about  it  ?  No !  In  Panama  they  simply 
don't  know  any  longer  now  that  there  is  a  war. 
Nobody  thinks  about  it  except  the  old  women  that 
have  their  kids  at  the  front.  .  .  .  The  pretty 
ladies  have  never  been  so  just  so.  .  .  .  I  found 
old  friends  making  twenty  francs  a  day.  ...  I  say, 
a  fellow  that  had  a  wretched  little  den  where 
he  mended  bicycles,  he's  a  millionaire  now;  he 
smokes  cigars  with  bands  on  them,  that  I 
wouldn't  dare  to  touch.  And  that  crowd  in  the 
cinemas,  in  the  bars,  everywhere.  .  .  .  You 
can  go  and  walk  in  the  Champs  Elysees  to  see  the 
rich  folk,  they're  still  all  there,  don't  you  worry. 
For  that  lot  it's  all  the  same  as  if  the  war  was  in 
Madagascar  or  in  China.  I'll  swear  they  don't 
fash  themselves  for  any  winter  campaign.  It's 
high  living,  I  tell  you,  high  living  all  the 
time.    ..." 

"Aye  I  saw  that,  too,  when  I  was  on  leave," 
assented  one  of  the  newcomers. 

The  narrator  shot  a  look  at  the  interrupter. 

"You've  seen  nothing  at  all,"  said  he.  "You 
don't  get  time  to  take  note  of  everything  in  a 
single  week.     Now  I  stayed  for  twenty  days  in  a 


342  Wooden  Crosses 

convalescent  hospital,  I  did,  and  then  two  leaves 
of  forty-eight  hours  besides,  and  a  Sunday  I  took 
on  the  strict  q.t.  .  .  .  For  you  can  ask  if  one 
is  bored  stiff  at  the  depot.  .  .  .  Non-coms, 
that  are  simply  breaking  their  necks  to  escape 
being  sent  back  again,  and  who  make  you  gasp 
to  get  back,  marches  by  day,  marches  by  night, 
fatigues,  drill.  One  day  they  wanted  to  shove  me 
on  to  a  week's  duty  with  prisoners  of  war.  I  said 
to  the  sergeant-major,  'If  you  stick  me  along  with 
the  Fritzes  I'll  do  one  of  them  in.  .  .  .  I  don't 
ever  want  to  see  one  of  their  mugs  again.  .  .  . ' 
After  that  he  never  said  a  word  to  me  again  about 
it.  On  account  of  my  medal  they  always  pushed 
me  into  doing  orderly  to  officers  because  that  looks 
well.  .  .  .  One  Saturday  I  was  well  on  and 
I  told  them  all  off  properly  when  I  got  back:  I 
said  I  was  fed  up  with  the  shirkers  in  the  rear  and 
asked  to  get  back.  ...  I  was  kept  three  weeks 
at  divisional  depot  and  so  here  I  am.   .    .    . " 

'  *  Pity  they  haven't  put  you  back  again  with  us,'* 
regretted  Maroux. 

''With  my  old  pal  Morache?  .  .  .  You've 
got  a  nice  notion  of  a  joke,  you  have.  I'll  take 
you  to  St.  Cloud  some  Sunday,  and  you  can  carry 
the  basket." 

The  rain  had  stopped.  Sitting  on  the  first  step, 
his  eyes  boring  into  the  thick  night  with  its  clouds 
so  low  that  the  bursting  rockets  lit  up  their  mud- 
coloured  bulk,  Gilbert  was  listening  to  the  grievous 
plaint  of  the  wounded  man.     Oppressed  at  heart 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  343 

he  could  think  now  of  nothing  else,  divining  the 
moment  when  the  poor  dying  fellow  would  call  out 
again,  counting  up  the  seconds.    .    .    . 

''Come  and  fetch  me,  mates.  .  .  .  Sergeant 
Brunet  of  the  Seventh.    .    .    ." 

Then  the  exhausted  voice  would  die  away  again 
in  the  night. 

"If  they  don't  go  and  hunt  for  him  I  shall  go," 
Gilbert  thought,  deeply  troubled.  "So  much  the 
worse  ii  I  get  knocked  over." 

As  he  scraped  out  the  bottom  of  his  mess-tin, 
''Lot's  of  extra  grub,  boys!"  Vieuble  was  still 
speaking. 

"On  the  whole,  out  here,  we've  a  good  job.  In 
the  rear  they're  always  being  messed  about, 
they're  always  talking  about  relieving  them,  the 
doctors  have  their  clothes  off  once  a  fortnight,  the 
women  cross-question  them.  .  .  .  While  up 
here,  there's  none  of  all  that  to  be  afraid  of.  You've 
never  seen  a  commission  coming  to  inspect  the 
front  line,  to  relieve  the  blighters  that  aren't  in 
their  places.  No  use  talking,  you're  well  off, 
they  leave  you  in  peace.  .  .  .  We've  got  a  good 
place,  and  we  only  have  to  keep  off  playing  the 
fool  to  hold  it." 

A  rifle  grenade  burst  just  in  front  of  the  parapet. 
In  the  deeper  silence  after  the  detonation  we  could 
hear  a  broken  sob. 

' '  Mates,  Louis  1  Little  Louis !  Come  quick,  boys," 
cried  the  voice,  completely  done,  "quick.   .    .    ." 

Another  grenade  burst,  and  its  red  flame  lit  up 


344  Wooden  Crosses 

with  a  brutal  light  the  watchers  with  their  curving 
backs ;  then  a  third.  ...  In  the  German  trench 
a  little  fusillade  was  crackling  up,  with  the  object 
of  hiding  the  starting  of  the  grenades  in  its  own 
noise. 

"Alarm  there!  They're  attacking,"  cried  a 
voice. 

A  wave  ran  through  the  men  from  the  end  of  the 
sap  to  the  black  depths  of  the  dug-out.  In  the 
trench  bent  backs  straightened  up.  A  rocket 
whistled  aloft,  imperiously.  You  could  hear  the 
dry  click  of  rifles  being  cocked,  and  without  any 
further  waiting,  at  random,  with  a  violent  gesture 
of  their  bodies  putting  every  ounce  of  force  into  it, 
the  bombers  hurled  their  lemons.  That  crash  of 
explosives  covered  the  whole  general  uproar. 

''Alarm  there!  Up  and  out!  .  .  ."they  were 
shouting  in  the  dug-out. 

Hands  were  groping  and  feverishly  hunting  for 
rifles,  every  man  recognizing  his  own  with  his 
fingers,  by  its  vest  of  flannel  or  oilcloth.  Feet 
trampled  on  one  another.  It  was  a  low  tumult 
of  swearing,  of  unhooked  mess- tins,  of  rifles  falling 
clumsily  with  their  necklace  of  equipment  hung 
on  the  muzzle. 

"Outside!     God's  truth!  .    .    .** 

Going  out,  the  brutal  glare  of  the  rockets  was  sim- 
ply blinding.  Firing  began  at  random.  Everyone 
flung  himself  at  the  parapet,  no  matter  where,  and 
brought  his  rifle  to  the  shoulder.  Elbow  to  elbow, 
we  were  suddenly  like  so  many  machines  at  work : 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  345 

brutal  blow  of  the  recoil  when  the  bullet  goes  on 
its  way,  automatic  movement  of  the  breech  opened 
and  shut,  a  hand  burning  itself  on  the  overheated 
barrel.  In  gulps  we  breathed  in  wafts  of  powder. 
One  idea  only :  to  fire  and  go  on  firing.  The  burst- 
ing of  the  shells  nosing  after  the  trench  made  us 
rock  and  stagger  without  our  ever  thinking  of  it, 
we  reload,  present,  fire.   .    .    . 

"Cease  firing!"  cried  a  voice  behind  us. 

Ricordeau,  mounted  on  a  pile  of  sandbags,  was 
looking  out  into  the  plain  torn  with  glaring  lights. 
When  the  rifle  fire  was  stopped  the  thundering 
explosions  of  the  barrage  were  heard  better.  All 
heads  went  into  hiding. 

"It  was  just  to  get  us  out,"  said  the  Adjutant. 
"Now  they'll  'saucepan'  us  like  blazes.  .  .  . 
Come  on,  everybody  into  shelter." 

In  a  confused  rout  we  all  piled  up  in  the  staircase 
leading  into  the  dug-out.  The  two-hundred-and- 
tens  that  were  coming  over  pufiing  seemed  to 
thrust  the  last  ones  on  with  a  brutal  grip.  We 
tumbled  in,  blind.   .    .    . 

"  Make  a  light,  good  Lord  I  .  .  .  who  has  got 
aHghter?" 

A  candle  lit  up  the  dug-out,  vast  in  extent,  low, 
seeming  to  stiffen  and  buttress  itself  to  hold  up 
that  huge  load  on  its  squat  props.  Overhead 
the  guns  were  thundering  harder  than  ever,  and 
at  every  battering  thud  the  tree  trunk  pillars 
shook. 

"Did  any  one  stay  on  watch  up  above?"  asked 


346  Wooden  Crosses 

Ricordeau  whose  plump  and  rosy  face  was  glisten- 
ing in  the  light  of  the  candle. 

Nobody  answered. 

''There  are  the  fellows  in  the  listening-post." 

"That's  not  enough,  we  must  tell  off  a  man  for 
it.     It's  for  your  squad,  Maroux." 

The  corporal,  on  principle,  growled  under  his 
breath.  "Naturally,"  and  he  asked  us:  "Whose 
turn  is  it  to  go  out?" 

A  newcomer  said  at  once : 

"It's  not  my  turn.  .  .  .  There's  Bouffioux 
who  has  never  taken  it  over  yet." 

The  quoudam  cook  was  buried  away  in  a  comer 
between  two  piles  of  sandbags. 

"And  why  should  it  fall  on  me?"  he  protested  in 
a  tearful  voice  turning  his  pitiful  big  head  towards 
us.  "But  you're  never  going  to  put  me  out  as 
sentry  all  by  myself?  ...  I  can  hardly  see 
at  all,  especially  at  night,  one  eye  as  good  as 
gone.    ..." 

"That's  enough,  Bouffioux,"  interrupted  Ricor- 
deau, "the  tear  office  is  shut." 

"All  the  same,"  twittered  the  other,  "I  think 
I'd  be  more  useful  by  and  by  for  digging." 

Little  Broucke  looked  at  the  fat  lump  of  a  fellow 
with  an  air  of  complete  disgust. 

"Here,  I'll  go  out,"  he  declared,  "I'll  go  in 
your  place.  ...  I  know  well  enough  what 
you've  got  in  your  stomach,  but  it's  not  up  to  much 
anyway." 

He  clambered  up  the  stair.    As  he  was  going  out- 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  347 

side,  a  stroke  more  violent  than  ever  shook  the 
dug-out  and  hurled  into  it  a  lurid  glare. 

''Broucke!"  called  Maroux,  uneasy.  From 
overhead  a  calm  voice  answered : 

"Don't  you  fash  yourself.   .    .    .*' 

It  was  a  rhythmic  pounding,  regular,  inexorable, 
the  shells  following  one  upon  another  without 
respite,  churning  up  the  ravaged  earth  metre  by 
metre.  Standing  at  the  foot  of  the  stair  Ricordeau 
counted  the  strokes. 

''That  one  fell  not  far  away.  .  .  .  That  one 
was  a  himdred-and-fifty.  .  ,  .  They're  giving 
us  a  fair  treat!" 

Their  faces  turned  up  to  the  low  roof  constructed 
of  closely  laid  trunks  of  trees,  the  comrades  were 
arguing. 

''I'm  just  asking  myself  suppose  a  two-himdred- 
and-ten  was  to  come  along  here." 

*' What  do  you  think?  .  .  .  There's  more  than 
four  metres  of  earth  above  us." 

"That  proves  nothing.  Their  big  stuff  with 
delayed  percussion  fuse.   .    .    ." 

"Have  you  got  any  baccy?  My  pouch  is 
empty." 

"You  won't  have  time  to  roll  yourself  one." 

"Oh  well,  they've  been  bombarding  us  for  a 
whole  hour." 

"It  would  have  to  drop  just  clean  on  top." 

**And  then  ...  I  saw  once,  myself,  at 
Vanquois.   ..." 

There  was  nothing  to  be  heard  but  a  dull  low 


34^  Wooden  Crosses 

growling,  and  now  and  then  a  crash  nearer  at  hand 
that  resounded  right  down  through  the  dug-out. 
Maroux  would  spring  out,  cHmb  a  few  steps,  and 
call: 

*'Broucke!" 

The  lowered  voice  would  reply: 

"Going  strong.     Going  strong.   ..." 

Under  the  infernal  bombardment  one  had  a 
moment  of  mere  stupefaction.  One  remained 
knocked  out,  hands  between  knees,  head  absolutely- 
empty.  We  eased  ourselves  in  a  bully-beef-tin 
passed  from  hand  to  hand.  Then,  nervously,  we 
began  again  to  talk  quick,  quicker.  We  let  fly 
all  kinds  of  chaff,  with  dry  mouths:  **He  awakened 
too  soon.  .  .  .  What  a  packet  he's  been  getting 
from  old  Krupp's!  .  .  .  When  do  you  fancy 
the  war's  going  to  start?  If  only  I'd  known  I'd 
have  gone  to  sleep  at  the  hotel." 

But  the  terrible  ram  seemed  to  draw  nearer  still, 
in  a  fury  of  thunder,  and  the  chatterers  held  their 
tongues.  I  fancied  I  could  feel  against  my  shoul- 
der the  beating  of  Gilbert's  heart.  Bouffioux  had 
rolled  himself  up  in  his  blanket,  hiding  his  head  so 
as  to  see  nothing  further.  With  resignation  in  our 
backs  we  were  waiting. 

A  big  shell  burst,  a  clattering  crash  of  iron- 
mongery, and  the  wind  in  furious  eddies  blew  out 
our  candle.  With  the  dark,  anguish  gripped  us 
hard.  Maroux,  at  first  stunned,  climbed  quickly 
out. 

*'Broucke!    Broucke!  .    .    ."he  called. 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  349 

We  heard  his  voice  going  outside,  then  go  farther 
away.  .  .  .  He  came  back  just  as  someone  was 
lighting  the  candle  again .  It  lit  up  his  pallid  face  in 
full  under  the  bar  of  shadow  thrown  by  his  helmet. 

"Someone  must  go,"  he  said  simply,  in  a 
choked  voice.   .    .    .     ''It'syour  turn,  Demachy." 

Gilbert  said,  "Right."  He  put  on  his  helmet, 
which  he  had  laid  down,  took  up  his  rifle,  made  me 
a  little  au  revoir  with  a  movement  of  his  head,  and 
went  up. 

He  had  barely  got  outside,  when  two  explosions 
bent  him  double,  and  something  lashed  his  coat, 
stone  or  splinter.  The  trench  in  front  of  him  was 
smashed  down,  he  strode  over  the  sacks,  trampling 
in  the  loose,  sticky  earth. 

Broucke  had  not  so  much  as  budged.  Half 
sitting  on  a  jutting  bit  of  the  trench  wall,  his  arm 
extended  on  the  parapet  he  seemed  to  be  con- 
tinuing his  sleep,  his  head  drooping,  his  collar 
buttoned  awry,  letting  the  rain  drip  through  on  to 
his  thin  chest.  There  was  nothing  much  to  re- 
mark: two  little  red  threads  trickling  from  his 
nostrils — that  was  all. 

The  shells  now  were  thudding  down  on  the  left, 
less  regularly,  with  a  kind  of  fatigued  rage.  The 
reports  came  at  intervals.  .  .  .  And  then  on 
the  level  of  the  ground.  Gilbert  heard  the  voice, 
the  almost  imperceptible  voice  of  the  unknown 
wounded  man  who  was  still  imploring. 

"Fetch  me.  .  .  .  I've  got  a  maman,  mates, 
I've  got  a  maman.'' 


350  Wooden  Crosses 

And   he    pronounced    it,   "moman"    as    Paris 
children  do. 


It  was  going  to  rain  again,  the  day  showed  a 
livid  blinding  whiteness.  On  the  earth  there  lay- 
about fragments  and  tatters  of  rain  in  yellowy 
shallow  puddles,  which  the  wind  ruffled,  and  in 
which  a  few  stray  drops  made  circles.  And  yet 
the  rain  could  not  surely  be  hoping  to  wash  all 
that  mud,  to  wash  those  rags,  to  wash  those  dead 
bodies?  Though  it  were  to  rain  all  the  tears  of 
heaven,  rain  a  whole  deluge,  it  would  blot  nothing 
out.  No,  an  age  to  rain  would  never  avail  to 
wash  all  that  away. 

There  was  no  defence  in  front  of  us,  not  a  stake, 
not  a  strand  of  wire.  Humps,  holes,  a  lacerated 
earth  sprouting  with  debris,  and  some  twelve 
hundred  metres  off,  the  wood  we  were  to  carry, 
a  melancholy  nursery  of  slashed  and  despoiled 
tree  trunks. 

They  said  the  attack  was  to  be  at  eight  o'clock, 
but  nobody  knew  anything  definitely  about  it. 
All  night  long  the  liaison  orderlies  had  brought  us 
orders,  and  then  counter  orders ;  a  note  sent  to  the 
commandant  had  advised  him  that  the  plan  of  the 
sector  that  had  been  sent  to  him  when  we  came  away 
was  not  up  to  date,  and  Ricordeau  had  been  ask- 
ing ever  since  daybreak  whether  the  sandbag 
works  that  could  be  seen  on  the  left  belonged 
to  the  Germans  or  were  really  ours.     Only  once 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  351 

had  our  artillery  been  in  action,  but  the  shells  had 
fallen  short  and  killed  the  watchers  in  the  advance 
post,  and  we  had  quickly  sent  up  a  rocket  asking 
them  to  lengthen  the  range.  After  that  the  artillery 
had  not  fired  again. 

Some  of  the  soldiers  were  still  sleeping  and  doz- 
ing, curled  up  under  their  blankets,  and  the  liaison 
orderlies  strode  over  them  in  their  hurry  to  and 
fro,  without  knowing  whether  they  were  alive  or 
dead. 

**He  is  killed,  that  one,  is  he?'* 

**Not  yet,  wait  till  to-night,"  muttered  the  man 
drawing  in  his  feet. 

Cowering  away  in  a  corner,  Bouffioux  would  not 
part  for  a  moment  from  his  mask,  terrified  at  the 
least  whiff  of  powder  the  wind  brought  down  on  us. 
For  an  hour  he  had  been  heard  stuttering:  "That 
smells  of  apples.  .  .  .  That  smells  of  mustard. 
.  .  .  That  smells  of  garlic.  .  .  ."  and  every 
time  he  put  on  his  hood  again  in  a  fright.  Now  he 
no  longer  took  it  off,  and  crouched  in  his  hole,  one 
might  have  thought  him  a  carnival  monster,  with 
that  wild  beast  head  waggling  and  swaying  about. 

"It's  always  the  funkiest  ones  that  cop  it," 
cried  a  pal  to  him,  to  restore  his  courage. 

They  were  not  talking  to  each  other.  Some 
were  eating,  moistening  their  bread  with  the  rain 
that  dripped  from  their  helmets,  the  others  were 
waiting,  with  humped -up  backs,  looking  at  nothing, 
saying  nothing. 

Between  two  explosions  a  heavy  silence  weighed 


352  Wooden  Crosses 

upon  the  trench,  and  when  one  looked  at  the  com- 
rades full  in  the  face,  one  fancied  in  their  tired 
eyes  one  same  idea,  like  a  reflection  from  the  livid 
sky.     Suddenly  an  order  was  repeated : 

"Pass  along  there,  the  colonel's  watch.    .    .    ." 

They  passed  it  along  from  hand  to  hand,  and  with- 
out a  word,  the  chiefs  of  sections  took  the  time. 

It  was  a  little  silver  watch  case,  thickly  convex 
and  chased  like  a  gift  for  a  girl's  first  communion, 
with  its  garlands  of  roses.  And  it  was  that  watch, 
that  watch  alone,  that  knew  the  hour.  The  dread- 
ful moment  when  we  must  leave  our  holes,  dash 
through  and  into  the  smoke.  Straight  to  meet 
the  bullets. 

''I  bought  its  twin  for  my  little  girl,"  said  a 
comrade  to  me. 

Gilbert,  who  was  always  a  little  feverish  on  days 
of  a  stiff  affair,  was  strangely  calm  this  morning. 
There  was  in  his  voice,  in  his  resigned  manner, 
something  fateful  that  made  one  uneasy,  and  he 
himself  felt  in  his  heart  a  fear  he  had  never  known 
before.  Silent  and  taciturn  he  looked  at  the  wood, 
the  tragic  forest  of  gnawed  stakes  where  the  shells 
tore  their  smoke  to  rags.  How  far  away  it  was. 
.  .  .  "How  many  machine  guns  could  they 
have?" 

He  was  so  cold,  that  he  did  not  feel  the  wet 
barrel  of  his  rifle  in  his  right  hand.  It  was  strange, 
he  was  always  cold  on  these  days.  But  these 
nerveless  legs,  this  empty  head,  this  fear  at  heart, 
it  was  the  first  time.   .    .    . 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  353 

"Come  and  sit  down,  Gilbert,'*  said  Sulphart  to 
him,  "we're  comfortable  here  in  the  dry.   .    .    . " 

We  were  huddled  together,  three  of  us,  under  a 
kind  of  penthouse,  made  of  a  barn-door  held  up 
by  the  sandbags  of  the  parapet,  and  to  pass  the 
time,  without  an  appetite  we  were  broaching  a 
tin  of  bully  beef.  Gilbert  did  not  turn  round. 
He  suddenly  lifted  his  head  and  cried : 

"Ah!" 

At  the  same  moment  we  heard  the  lashing  out 
of  rifle  fire,  the  explosion  of  bombs.  A  whole 
tumult  of  battle  suddenly  let  loose. 

Ricordeau,  who  had  been  sitting  at  the  entrance 
to  the  dug-out,  rushed  out,  and  without  paying 
any  heed  to  the  bullets  whining  about  him  he 
leaped  on  a  pile  of  sandbags  and  looked  out  over 
the  parapet:  it  was  the  attack.  Little  flaky 
bombs  were  bursting  in  the  fields,  and  already 
shells  were  arriving,  exploding  in  thick  clouds. 
Going  to  earth  under  the  salvoes,  then  starting 
off  again,  our  men  were  charging.  Dispersed, 
scattered,  like  crumbs,  they  were  so  tiny  that  they 
appeared  lost  in  that  immense  plain. 

Mechanically  Ricordeau  had  tightened  his  chin- 
strap,  and  he  was  crying  in  a  broken  voice : 

"It's  not  possible,  they  are  mistaken.  .  .  . 
It's  only  in  an  hour's  time.  .  .  .  Fix  bayonets ! 
No,  no,  don't  move,  it's  not  time.  .  .  .  It's  a 
mistake.  .  .  .  Quick,  pass  it  down  to  the 
Captain:  What  are  we  to  do?" 

He  was  nmning  about  the  trench,  out  of  his 

23 


354  Wooden  Crosses 

wits,  jostling  all  of  us,  then  showing  himself  com- 
pletely, standing  up  on  the  broken  down  sandbags, 
he  tried  to  see  what  the  other  companies  were  do- 
ing. Some  sections  were  going  out,  as  if  hesitating, 
one  here,  then  another  farther  on.  Two  hundred 
metres  away,  an  officer  was  making  signs  that  we 
could  not  understand,  and  behind  him  we  could 
see  in  the  trench  a  compact  troop,  bristling  with 
bayonets. 

"So  much  the  worse,  we're  going  into  it,"  cried 
Ricordeau,  his  voice  suddenly  lightened  of  all  its 
distress. 

Without  giving  any  order,  he  jumped  on  the 
parapet,  ran  a  few  yards,  then  turning  round  as 
though  he  was  just  recollecting  us,  he  cried  without 
halting : 

''En  avantr' 

A  movement  eddied  along  the  trench.  Down  its 
whole  length  the  parapet  went  down,  the  sandbags 
torn  away.  One  man  pushing  another  forward, 
we  clambered  up.  One  moment's  hesitation  be- 
fore the  earth  all  in  uproar,  before  the  naked  plain : 
a  moment's  waiting  to  see  a  few  comrades  come 
up,  and  to  feel  them  side  by  side,  then  a  last  look 
behind.  .  .  .  And  without  a  cry,  tragic,  silent, 
the  dislocated  company  dashed  forward.    .    .    . 

More  than  a  hundred  metres  in  front  of  us 
Ricordeau  was  running  bolt  upright,  still  farther 
away,  under  the  smoke,  we  could  see  sections 
disappearing  in  the  wood.  Concealed  among  the 
broken  ruins  of  trees  the  machine  guns  were  tap, 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  355 

tap,  tapping ;  a  trench  gun  was  also  firing,  as  hard  as 
it  could,  furiously.  Men  were  being  bowled  over. 
.  .  .  We  were  running  straight  before  us,  dourly, 
without  a  cry :  we  would  have  been  afraid,  if  we  only 
opened  our  mouths,  of  letting  escape  all  the  courage 
we  were  holding  back,  behind  our  clenched  teeth. 

Bodies  and  spirits  were  all  straining  onwards 
towards  that  single  aim :  the  wood,  to  reach  the 
wood.  It  appeared  horribly  far  away,  with  all 
those  spouting  shells  that  separated  us  from  it. 
An  unending  thunder  echoed  and  re-echoed  in  our 
heads,  and  the  shaken  earth  was  quaking  beneath 
our  feet.  We  ran  panting  on.  We  threw  our- 
selves flat  on  our  faces  when  a  shell  exploded, 
then,  stunned,  we  set  off  once  more,  drowned  in 
the  smoke.  The  bunches  of  men  seemed  to  melt 
away  under  the  lightnings. 

In  front  of  me  a  wounded  man  dropped  his  rifle. 
I  saw  him  swaying  for  a  moment  as  he  stood,  then 
heavy  and  awkward  he  set  off  again  with  his  arms 
dangling,  and  ran  like  us,  without  knowing  that 
he  was  dead  already.  .  .  .  He  went  a  few 
yards  staggering,  and  then  rolled  over.    .    .    . 

As  they  were  going  out  last  of  all  from  the 
trench,  a  shrapnel  shell  had  brutally  flung  them 
back  with  its  burning  breath — a  detonation  so 
terrific  that  they  had  heard  nothing,  completely 
overwhelmed.  Sulphart  let  himself  slip  down 
back  into  the  trench.     Voices  were  crying  out: 

**Houla!     I'm  wounded." 


35^  Wooden  Crosses 

The  smoke  dispersing  disclosed  men  tr3ring  to 
pick  themselves  up  from  the  ground.  Stretched 
out,  his  face  buried  in  the  earth,  Bouffioux  shiv- 
ered for  one  moment,  then  moved  no  more,  his 
flank  torn  open.  The  wounded  men,  once  they 
had  stood  up  again,  flung  away  their  rifle,  their 
equipment,  their  satchel,  and  set  off  at  a  run. 

Others  less  seriously  hit,  waited  until  the  bom- 
bardment slackened  off  and  then  quietly  they  tore 
open  their  first-aid  packet  with  their  teeth.  Sul- 
phart  remained  bent  double,  for  he  could  hardly 
breathe. 

**I've  got  it,"  he  breathed  in  a  whisper,  looking 
at  a  comrade,  with  a  bewildered  air. 

**It's  not  much,"  the  other  said  to  him,  "it's 
only  your  hand." 

"No.     In  the  back." 

Under  the  shoulder  his  overcoat  was  holed  and 
the  blood  was  scarcely  to  be  seen,  making  merely 
a  spot  of  deep  dark  red. 

"Is  it  bleeding  a  lot?"  he  asked. 

"No.  Go  along  quick  to  the  dressing-station. 
I'm  just  going  to  dress  your  hand." 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  did  Sulphart  look  at  his 
hand.  His  fingers  were  as  though  crushed  and 
mangled,  all  caked  together  with  blood,  and  when 
he  had  actually  seen  his  wound  he  at  once  felt  the 
pain  of  it. 

"Go  gently  with  it,  it's  hurting  me  a  lot.  I've 
got  some  iodine  in  my  yellow  cartridge  pouch,  take 
it  out.   ..." 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  357 

The  comrade  poured  over  the  mangled  hand  a  half 
of  the  contents  of  the  flask,  and  that  cruel  smarting 
made  him  cry  out.  Coarsely,  without  daring  to  tie 
it  close,  the  other  carried  out  the  dressing  for  him, 
the  bandage  reddening  as  it  was  rolled  round. 

"And  you?  Where  are  you  wounded?"  asked 
Sulphart. 

''Nowhere.   .    .    .   I'mgoing  to  join  the  others." 

There  were  three  of  them,  who  had  been  spared 
by  the  shell. 

They  looked  at  their  section,  which,  brought  to 
a  halt  for  a  moment  by  a  burst  of  machine-gun 
fire,  was  starting  off  again  in  skirmishing  order,  and 
then  they  looked  at  the  wounded. 

"You're  taking  your  skin  out  of  it,  you  fellows," 
said  one  with  an  air  of  envy.  .  .  .  "Haven't 
any  of  you  got  a  scrap  of  tobacco?" 

"Yes.     I've  got  a  packet  left,  wait." 

"I've  got  some  chocolate,"  said  Sulphart  in  a 
clipped  voice.     "Who  wants  it? " 

The  wounded  men  emptied  their  packs,  and 
their  satchels,  and  the  other  three  chose  what  they 
pleased.     When  the  booty  was  divided: 

'  *  So  then,  are  we  going  up  ? "  said  one  of  the  three, 
a  corporal  whose  pallor  could  be  discovered  under 
the  trails  of  sweat  and  mud.  ...  '*Au  revoiVy 
mates,  and  good  luck  to  you!" 

They  got  out  of  the  trench  and  bending  under 
the  noise,  they  ran  at  a  clumsy  trot  towards  the 
wood,  all  alone — three  pygmies  charging  down  on 
giants  of  smoke. 


358  Wooden  Crosses 

Sitting  on  the  sandbags,  leaning  up  against  the 
soft  trench  wall,  Sulphart  felt  himself  almost  com- 
fortable as  he  was,  though  his  flesh  was  racked 
with  pain  and  his  head  was  burning.  But  he  was 
without  strength,  without  will:  a  comrade  less 
sorely  wounded  than  himself  had  to  help  him  to 
get  up. 

**Come  along,  hurry  up,"  repeated  those  men 
that  were  going  down  in  front  of  him. 

He  could  not  walk  quickly,  with  that  piercing 
point  that  kept  him  from  breathing. 

"Hi!  "he  wanted  to  call.   .    .    .    "Wait  for  me!" 

But  his  choked  voice  could  not  carry  far,  and  the 
others  were  hurrying  on.  He  saw  the  last  man's 
coat  disappear  round  the  angle  of  the  trench. 
Halting  for  a  moment  he  recovered  his  breath, 
and  then  having  picked  up  a  stick  he  started 
again,  bending  like  an  old  man. 

There  were  wounded  men  making  their  way  all 
along  the  trenches.  There  were  some  of  them 
terrifying,  grey  of  hue,  who  continually  halted  to 
gasp,  crouching  down  in  recesses,  and  who  gazed  at 
the  others  as  they  passed  with  haggard  eyes  that 
saw  nothing.  Sulphart  barely  noticed  them,  as  he 
went  on  steadfastly  with  the  same  unvarying  pace. 

At  this  point  the  trench  wound  its  way  among 
the  ruins  of  a  tiny  village.  As  he  was  passing  at 
the  back  of  a  wall  he  heard  the  whistling  of  a  shell 
and  crouched  down.  The  explosion  was  so  close 
that  he  fancied  he  could  see  its  red  lightning  be- 
hind his  shut  eyelids.     With  fear  in  the  pit  of  his 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  359 

stomach  he  set  off  quicker  than  ever.  Other 
shells  followed,  a  whole  pack  let  loose  upon  these 
smashed  fragments  of  houses.  Sulphart  then 
started  to  run,  seeking  for  a  place  to  shelter.  He 
caught  sight  of  a  cellar  stair,  at  the  top  of  which  a 
stretcher-bearer  was  standing. 

"There^s  no  more  room  here,"  the  man  said  to 
him  as  he  pushed  him  away.  "You  go  farther 
along." 

In  the  darkness  of  the  stair  you  could  divine 
the  shapes  of  soldiers  crowded  together  and  the 
white  patches  of  their  dressings.  Sulphart,  shrink- 
ing himself  together,  nevertheless  thought  he 
would  take  shelter  a  little,  as  another  time-shell 
exploded.  The  splinters  lashed  the  wall.  He 
ran  a  few  yards  farther,  but  the  other  cellar  was 
full  too.  Lips  and  eyes  twisting  with  a  nervous 
spasm,  he  went  on  humping  up  his  back  under  the 
explosions,  seeking  a  hole  into  which  he  could 
dive.  At  every  burst  of  flame  he  flattened  him- 
self against  the  wall,  hiding  his  head  behind  his 
bended  arm. 

There  were  territorials  laden  with  tools  cram- 
ming themselves  into  the  smallest  nooks  and 
crannies ;  he  flung  himself  upon  one  of  them  whose 
legs  were  the  only  part  of  him  still  sticking  outside, 
and  with  a  furious  effort  made  his  way  also  into 
the  hole.  Crammed  together,  face  to  face,  their 
breath  mingling,  the  two  men  stared  at  one 
another,  neither  able  to  see  anything  of  the  other 
beyond  his  fixed  eyes,  and  the  old  man's  hard 


36o  Wooden  Crosses 

moustache  pricked  Sulphart's  lips.  They  said 
not  a  word  to  one  another,  they  were  simply  stupe- 
fied, and  their  intermingled  legs  timidly  tried  to 
find  their  way  in  farther,  seeking  to  hide  them- 
selves still  better. 

The  guns  followed  one  another  in  infernal  salvoes, 
and  the  shells  were  falling  so  close  that  at  every 
one  they  felt  the  earth  struggling  beneath  them. 
A  detonation  more  dreadful  than  the  rest  belched 
up,  and  the  smoke  suddenly  filled  the  hole.  .  .  . 
Sulphart  thought  he  was  engulfed,  entombed. 
He  made  a  violent  movement  to  free  himself, 
but  his  arm  was  caught  under  the  other  man's 
bust,  their  two  bodies  were  wedging  each  other 
in  and  he  could  not  move  at  all.  Frightened  he 
struggled  violently,  fancying  he  felt  himself  stifling 
under  the  giving  way  of  the  earth  above  them: 
already  suffocating,  when  the  smoke  as  it  cleared 
off  showed  him  the  light  of  day.  And  then  right 
in  front  of  his  face,  up  against  his  very  eyes,  Sul- 
phart saw  Death  in  the  look  of  the  old  man.  For 
one  moment  it  was  terrible,  that  human  look,  it 
had  one  second  of  tremendous  resistance,  and  then 
a  light  seemed  to  be  quenched  in  it,  it  became 
dull,  troubled,  glassy.  .  .  .  And  Sulphart  took 
upon  his  own  lips  the  last  breath  of  the  dying  man, 
a  horrible  moan,  as  if  he  had  actually  given  up 
his  life  in  that  last  convulsive  hiccough.  For  a 
moment  Sulphart  remained  still  closely  pressed 
against  the  dead  man,  whose  eyes  were  now  rolling 
backwards;  he  freed  himself  brutally  and  came 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  361 

out  from  the  hole,  holding  up  his  left  hand,  which 
gave  him  torture  at  the  least  knock.  When  he 
was  standing  up,  he  saw  that  the  territorial  had 
his  abdomen  torn  open,  and  a  big  patch  of  blood 
stained  his  faded  blue  tunic  with  deep  red.  He 
was  calling  to  the  others  who  were  getting  up 
from  the  ground  and  gathering  their  tools  together 
when  he  felt  a  strange  taste  in  his  mouth.  He 
spat — it  was  quite  pink.  .  .  .  Frightened,  he 
drank  off  at  one  draught  the  little  amount  of  rum 
he  had  left  in  his  bottle,  and  he  set  off  quicker  than 
before,  fearing  lest  he  should  fall  down  on  the 
way. 

He  did  not  know  these  twisting  communication 
ditches  hacked  out  of  the  mud.  But  at  intervals 
there  were  liaison  orderlies  or  stretcher-bearers 
who  told  him:  "Go  straight  on,"  and  he  went 
straight  on,  without  caring  to  take  any  rest. 

At  length  he  saw  a  notice  board  marked  "Dress- 
ing Station,"  and  went  down  into  the  dug-out.  To 
get  to  the  bottom,  it  was  necessary  to  step  over 
the  wounded  men  huddled  up  on  the  stairs.  The 
room  was  also  filled  with  them — ^badly  wounded 
men  lying  upon  stretchers  and  gasping  hoarsely, 
their  eyes  closed  upon  their  pain. 

The  doctor  said  to  Sulphart : 

"I  can  do  nothing  for  you  here.  .  .  .  Stay 
there  and  rest,  and  at  night  when  there  is  less 
firing  going  on  you  will  all  go  together  to  the 
hospital." 

He  was  looking  for  room  to  sit  down  when  a 


362  Wooden  Crosses 

little  sergeant  whose  arm  was  hung  in  a  sling  by 
a  big  check  handkerchief  got  up  and  said : 

*'I  won't  wait  here  any  longer.  ...  I  won't 
have  any  blood  left  in  me  by  to-night." 

And  all  tottering  and  staggering  he  went  out, 
bumping  into  the  others,  and  Sulphart  sat  down 
on  the  stair  step  he  had  left. 

The  rainy  sky  hurried  on  the  coming  of  night, 
and  at  the  close  of  the  day  several  of  the  wounded 
set  off.  Sulphart  followed  them.  Before  him 
there  walked  a  chasseur-cL-pied  holding  his  smashed 
jaw  in  his  two  hands.  On  the  way  they  came  up 
with  others  and  their  swollen  band  arrived  near 
the  place  where  the  batteries  were  installed.  The 
gunners  came  out  to  look  at  them. 

*' You're  on  the  right  track,  boys.  .  .  .  The 
village  is  not  far  from  here.   .    .    . " 

They  went  on  again.  At  long  intervals  a  soldier 
was  found  lying,  wounded  and  emptied  of  all  his 
blood,  a  man  with  whom  Death  was  now  in  com- 
pany. Death  must  needs  have  known  their  track 
and  be  watching  for  them  as  they  passed,  to 
finish  them.  In  such  guise  they  found  and  recog- 
nized the  sergeant  by  his  big  check  handkerchief. 
And  why  too  had  he  insisted  on  going  off  alone. 
Two  by  two,  He  can  be  stood  up  to,  can  be 
resisted.   .    .    . 

The  little  remnant  of  the  day  was  trickling  away 
as  though  from  the  cracked  basin  of  a  fountain. 
In  the  thin  twilight  haze  they  could  catch  veiled 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  363 

glimpses  of  the  companies  going  up  as  reinforce- 
ments, bent  under  their  packs  and  implements. 
The  evening  became  alive  for  a  moment  with  a 
chinking  sound  of  arms  and  mess-tins.  Then  the 
road  was  deserted  again. 

One  wounded  man,  and  then  a  second,  halted 
unable  to  hold  out  any  farther.  One  of  them  let 
himself  drop  on  the  edge  of  the  ditch  and  began  to 
weep. 

"We'll  send  the  stretcher-bearers,"  his  comrades 
promised  as  they  went  away  with  their  spent  and 
weary  pace. 

At  length  they  perceived  in  the  darkness  a  farm 
with  low  roof,  whose  blinded  windows  allowed  a 
thin  blade  of  light  to  escape.  They  went  in.  At 
the  far  end  of  a  dark  passage  a  great  glass  window 
poured  its  cheery  light:  that  drew  them  on  like 
moths.  They  followed  the  passage,  groping,  and 
flattening  their  pallid  faces  against  the  window 
panes  they  looked  through.  The  table  was 
modestly  laid — more  drinking-cups  than  glasses — 
but  those  white  plates,  that  lamp,  that  smoking 
dish  wore  to  their  eyes  a  look  of  unheard-of  luxury 
and  daintiness.  Greedily  they  gazed  and  con- 
templated it.   .    .    . 

One  of  the  officers  sitting  at  the  table,  having 
raised  his  eyes  saw  in  the  shadow  their  row  of  fever- 
stricken  eyes,  all  those  dead  men  in  the  helmets, 
a^d  fastened  to  the  glass  the  dreadful  face  of  the 
chasseur,  whose  pulped  chin  was  nothing  but  a 
black  lump  of  clotted  blood.     He  started  convul- 


364  Wooden  Crosses 

sively  and  stood  up  on  his  feet,  very  pale.  The 
others,  amazed,  turned  around  and  in  their  turn 
they  saw  the  ghosts.  All  at  once  their  voices 
ceased  as  though  broken  off  short.   .    .    . 

"You  must  have  a  drink  here,  eh?"  said  an 
artillery  commandant  opening  the  door  to  them  at 
length.  "You  have  earned  it  indeed,  my  poor 
lads." 

They  hesitated  at  going  in,  for  the  over  bright 
light  made  their  eyes  blink.  For  all  that  they 
crowded  in  close  by  the  door  with  a  noise  of  drag- 
ging shuffling  boots,  and  passing  the  cups  from  one 
to  another  they  drank  eagerly.  At  every  mouth- 
ful the  chasseur  took,  the  wine  passing  through 
his  holed  chin  fell  down  on  to  his  coat  in  a  thin 
stream. 

"I  say,  let's  both  drink  one  another's  health," 
the  commandant  said  to  him. 

As  they  went  away  from  the  lighted  room  the 
thick  night  dazed  them.  Bands  of  men  could  be 
discerned,  making  dark  patches  on  the  road  with 
their  confused  masses  and  their  confused  uproar; 
they  followed  them  towards  the  village.  The 
obscure  streets  and  dark  courtyards  swarmed  with 
invisible  soldiers  and  hidden  voices.  Now  and 
then  the  strong  brutal  flare  of  a  motor  lit  up  a 
silhouetted  group  of  shadows. 

There  were  battaHons  of  reinforcements  waiting, 
clogging  up  the  street,  and  the  soldiers  were  con- 
tinually getting  up  to  question  the  woimded. 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  365 

* '  We  don't  know  a  thing  more  than  you  do.  It's 
a  bad  corner.   .    .    .     Where  is  the  field  hospital  ? " 

They  caught  sight  of  the  red  lantern  a  long  way 
off  in  the  depths  of  the  night,  and  hurried  on. 
Upon  the  pillar  of  the  door  a  placard  was  nailed  up : 

THIS  WAY  FOR  MEN  SLIGHTLY  WOUNDED 
AND  ABLE  TO  WALK 

The  sign  inspired  no  confidence  in  them  with 
its  somewhat  mocking  air. 

"Not  here,"  said  one  of  them:  'Hhey  can't  be 
evacuating  men  from  this  place." 

The  divisional  hospital  was  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  square.  It  was  a  large  house,  black  and 
deserted,  without  a  single  piece  of  furniture,  not 
even  a  pallet  bed. 

In  shirt  and  trousers,  with  his  forehead  glisten- 
ing with  sweat,  the  doctor  was  carrying  out  a  hasty 
examination  of  the  wounded,  whose  hurts  a  hospi- 
tal orderly  illuminated  with  his  lantern.  On  the 
ground  were  everywhere  lying  soiled  dressings, 
pads  of  cotton  wool.  Standing  on  a  stool  was  a  big 
basin  overflowing  with  reddened  water. 

'*Now  another,"  the  doctor  would  say,  wiping 
his  forehead  with  his  bare  arm. 

And  the  next  man  would  take  his  seat,  holding 
out  his  bandaged  arm  or  taking  off  his  tunic.  On 
a  deal  table  a  very  busy  soldier  was  filling  up 
papers,  which  the  wounded  men  themselves 
attached  to  their  coats,  like  a  badge. 


3^6  Wooden  Crosses 

In  a  neighbouring  room,  where  there  was  no 
light,  a  grievously  wounded  man  was  heard  crying 
out: 

** Aren't  they  going  to  put  me  in  a  bed,  doctor? 
...  Oh!  how  I  wish  I  was  in  one.  ...  A 
bed  with  sheets,  eh,  doctor?  .  .  .  Will  the  am- 
bulance waggon  be  coming  soon?  .  .  .  Quick, 
fetch  it  here." 

The  doctor  tore  Sulphart's  shirt  to  look  at  his 
wound. 

"The  bleeding  has  stopped  now.  .  .  .  They'll 
wash  it  down  there.  .  .  .  Give  me  your  hand 
now." 

Sulphart  could  not  keep  from  crying  out  when 
his  dressing,  all  stuck  together,  was  unrolled. 

"That's  nothing;  a  nice  little  wound,"  said  the 
doctor.  .  .  .  "Only  we'll  have  to  cut  off  two 
of  your  fingers." 

"So  much  the  worse,"  replied  the  redhead.  .  .  . 
"Oh  well,  I'm  not  a  pianist." 


"That  hurts.  ...  Oh!  how  that's  hurting 
me.   .    .    ." 

Gilbert  was  repeating  the  words  under  his 
breath,  as  if  he  had  fancied  he  would  soften  his 
pain  by  complaining.  He  had  remained  lying 
on  his  side  just  as  he  had  fallen,  and  when  with  a 
great  effort  he  would  manage  to  raise  his  heavy 
head,  a  tearless  sob  rose  up  from  his  heart. 

The  agony  had  dazed  and  stupefied  him,  and  he 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  3^7 

was  no  longer  conscious  of  his  limbs  or  his  head; 
he  felt  nothing  now  but  his  wound,  the  deep  hurt 
that  was  ransacking  his  belly. 

Not  for  one  moment  had  he  lost  consciousness, 
and  yet  the  hours  passed  quicker  than  if  he  had 
been  wholly  awake.  Now  that  his  thought  was 
freeing  itself  from  his  anaesthesia  he  was  beginning 
to  feel  that  he  was  suffering.  The  first  notion 
that  came  to  him  struck  him  roughly  like  a  wound : 
"Will  the  stretcher-bearers  ever  come  to  me  at 
all?" 

Anguish  laid  hold  of  him,  and  he  half  pulled 
himself  up  to  look  round.  But  the  agony  of  the 
movement  flung  him  brutally  down  again.  Were 
the  stretcher-bearers  ever  going  to  come?  .  .  . 
Yes,  certainly  when  night  would  have  come  com- 
pletely. And  if  they  did  not  come  at  all,  ever? 
A  black  horror  drew  a  veil  over  his  brain,  and  he 
remained  for  a  moment  immobile,  as  though  he  had 
been  poleaxed,  and  almost  free  from  pain.  Then 
he  opened  his  eyes  again. 

Twilight  was  now  saddening  that  tragic  wood 
whose  trees  were  all  as  stripped  and  bare  as  the 
uprights  of  so  many  crosses.  A  few  yards  away 
a  soldier  had  fallen,  his  body  crumpled  together 
like  a  ball,  and  under  his  open  overcoat  could  be 
seen  the  white  of  his  shirt,  as  if  he  had  tried  to 
get  at  his  woimd  before  he  died.  Another,  still 
farther  off,  seemed  to  be  taking  a  siesta,  his  back 
set  against  a  tree  trunk  all  scarred  and  bitten  by 
shelling,  his  head  falling  over  on  to  his  shoulder. 


368  Wooden  Crosses 

And  that  piece  of  blue  stuff,  was  that  yet  another 
one?    Yes,  still  another.    .    .    . 

Fear  took  hold  of  him  again.  Why  should  he 
be  the  only  living  man  left  in  that  haunted  forest  ? 
To  remain  lying  there  must  not  one  be  dumb  like 
them,  cold  like  them?  It  was  inevitable,  there 
was  no  help  for  it,  one  must  die.   .    .    . 

But  that  one  word — die — revolted  him  and 
roused  him  instead  of  overwhelming  him.  Well 
then,  no!  .  .  .  He  was  determined  not  to  die, 
he  was  absolutely  determined  not  to.  His  spirit 
straining,  his  fists  contracted,  he  tried  to  make 
out  where  he  was.  There  was  no  sign  or  indica- 
tion, none  at  all.  .  .  .  Shells  were  crossing  one 
another's  tracks,  above  the  wood  or  exploding 
quite  near  him,  flinging  up  the  earth  under  the 
dead  men's  sleeping.  Were  they  German  shells, 
or  were  they  shells  from  our  own  side?  .  .  . 
He  could  hear  many  a  short  burst  of  rifle  fire  in 
the  outskirts  of  the  wood,  but  without  being  able 
to  fix  his  position  or  direction.  Had  we  advanced? 
Had  the  Boches  retaken  the  forest?  .  .  .  There 
was  nothing  that  could  give  him  the  answer.  Noth- 
ing save  his  anguish  was  alive  within  that  mutilated 
wood,  among  those  quiet  insensitive  sleeping  ones 
whom  all  fear  had  left. 

With  the  fall  of  evening,  however,  the  gun  fire 
slackened  away.  A  cold  wind  was  prowling  about 
smelling  of  rain,  and  the  moist  sticky  earth  was 
freezing  his  legs.  Fear  was  drawing  up  to  him, 
coloured  like  the  night. 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  369 

Suddenly  he  seemed  to  hear  a  crackHng  of  twigs. 
Making  a  sharp  effort  he  sat  up  on  his  elbow  and 
called : 

"This  way.    .    .    .     I'm  wounded.    ..." 

Nothing  replied,  nothing  even  stirred.  Broken 
up  by  his  effort  he  fell  back  again  on  his  side, 
moaning.  His  aggravated  wound  was  torturing 
his  breast,  his  entrails,  his  flanks,  his  whole  body 
as  though  with  red  hot  pincers.  In  the  vertigo 
of  his  bitter  pain  he  was  stammering  to  himself : 

"I  won't  move  again.  ...  I  swear  I  won't 
move  again,  but  don't  hurt  me  so  much.    .    .    . " 

And  to  inspire  pity  in  the  dark  Master  who  was 
forcing  him  to  suffer,  he  remained  inert,  unmoving, 
his  eyes  fast  sealed,  burying  his  crooked  fingers 
in  the  cold  earth. 

Slowly  the  agony  became  less  cruel  and  a 
thought  awoke  in  his  buzzing  head. 

"I  mustn't  stay  any  longer  without  moving. 
...  If  I  faint  no  one  will  ever  see  me,  and  I 
shall  be  left  here  to  die.  I  must  manage  to  pull 
myself  up  again,  I  must  call  out." 

And  then  with  all  his  tenacity  of  will-power,  he 
decided,  "I  shall  go  and  get  my  back  up  against  a 
tree  and  dress  my  wound.  .  .  .  Then  when  any 
soldiers  pass  by  I  shall  shout  to  them.  ...  I 
must  do  it.    .    .    .     It's  my  life  at  stake.   ..." 

As  yet  he  had  not  dared  to  touch  his  wound,  it 
frightened  him  to  think  of  it,  and  his  hand  even 
kept  strictly  away  from  his  belly,  so  that  he  need 
not  feel,  need  not  know. 


370  Wooden  Crosses 

"The  haemorrhage  must  have  stopped,"  he 
thought, "it's  not  bleeding  any  longer.  I'll  do  my 
dressing  now." 

With  his  teeth  clenched  upon  the  cries  that 
came  through  his  throat  he  pulled  himself  up  with 
great  difficulty,  and  dragged  himself  along  and 
then  let  himself  drop  with  his  back  against  a 
tree.  His  wound  awakened  throbbed  in  his  sides, 
with  a  fever  pulse.  He  granted  himself  a  mo- 
ment's respite,  with  eyes  shut;  it  seemed  to 
him  he  had  just  achieved  a  little  towards  saving 
himself. 

He  took  his  packet  of  dressings  out  of  his 
pouch  and  tore  the  covering.  Now,  he  must  needs 
get  at  his  wound,  must  touch  it.  Many  a  time 
his  hands  moved  towards  his  belly,  but  they  hesi- 
tated, did  not  dare.  At  length  he  mastered  him- 
self, and,  bandage  ready,  he  resolutely  touched  the 
wound.  It  was  on  the  left  just  above  the  groin. 
Slowly,  to  avoid  the  pain,  he  unbuckled  his  belt, 
opened  his  great  coat,  and  his  trousers,  and  then  he 
tried  to  pull  up  his  shirt.  It  was  horrible,  he  felt 
as  though  he  was  tearing  out  his  entrails,  carrying 
his  live  flesh  with  it.  .  .  .  Tortured,  he  stopped, 
his  hand  laid  on  his  naked  flesh.  He  felt  some- 
thing warm  gently  dripping  all  along  his  fingers. 
Then  terrified,  to  stop  the  loss  of  his  blood,  he 
took  his  dressing,  and  without  unrolling  it ,  he  applied 
it  as  a  pad  to  his  wound.  Over  this  he  put  the 
covering  of  heavy  linen,  then  his  handkerchief, 
and  to  keep  it  all  well  pressed  home  over  the  bloody 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  37 1 

sore,  he  fastened  his  trousers  again,  a  gruesome 
torture  that  was  death  to  his  loins. 

At  last  at  the  very  end  of  his  strength,  he  let  his 
arms  drop  down  again,  and  with  head  lying  back 
he  descended  into  the  very  gulf  of  pain.  He  was 
breathing  with  jerky  convulsive  respirations,  a 
hoarse  panting.  The  shadows  were  falling  in  his 
eyes  as  thought  to  fill  them.  Upon  his  frozen 
body  his  head  seemed  to  burn,  buzzing  with  fever, 
and  the  cold  wind  that  blew  against  the  gloom 
brought  no  refreshing  coolness  to  his  forehead. 
A  few  drops  of  rain,  big  and  slow  and  heavy, 
gave  him  a  feeHng  of  infinite  comfort,  splashing 
down  on  to  his  face.  He  would  fain  have  re- 
mained so  for  ever,  until  the  stretcher-bearers 
should  come. 

Under  his  temples  his  thought  ran  to  and  fro  like 
a  fever.  No,  they  would  never  come  to  fetch  him. 
...  It  was  a  punishment  for  him.  Why  had  not 
he  gone  to  look  for  that  wounded  man  last  night  ? 
.  .  .  Yet  he  had  called  the  whole  night  through. 
It  was  to  pimish  him :  he  too  would  be  left,  aban- 
doned, to  die.    .    .    . 

He  still  kept  thinking  of  that  poor  man  who  had 
cried  out  the  whole  night  through,  in  the  black 
desert.  That  was  an  obsession.  ...  In  his 
deliriimi  he  said  to  himself,  '  *  If  I  can  manage  not 
to  think  of  him  any  more,  I  am  saved.  ...  It 
is  he  that  is  keeping  me  from  being  healed.  .  .  . 
I  mustn't   ..." 

And  he  kept  on  repeating  to  himself:     "I  will 


372  Wooden  Crosses 

...  I  will  ..."  but  in  a  voice  with  no 
strength  in  it,  like  a  child  in  tears  whose  grief  is 
about  to  send  it  to  sleep. 

In  the  gloom  tragic  voices  were  awakening.  He 
heard  a  German  who  was  imploring  with  a  thick 
accent:  "This  way  .  .  .  French  woimded. 
.    .    .     Come,  Frenchmen." 

Then  suddenly  it  was  a  dreadful  laugh,  a  crazy 
laugh  that  made  the  night  shudder. 

'*  Hi,  boys !"  another  was  shouting,  .  .  .  **I*11 
never  be  a  soldier  any  more.  .  .  .  Come  and 
look,  boys,  I  can't  be  a  soldier  any  more,  I've  got 
no  legs  now.   .    .    ." 

The  dying  men  roused  up  one  after  another, 
answered  one  another.  .  .  .  Then  the  silence 
fell  again,  frozen,  stony. 

Gilbert  felt  his  head  grow  heavier,  his  whole 
body  crushed,  giving  way.  Once  more  he  stiffened 
himself  up.  Now  that  it  was  dark,  it  was  certain 
that  stretcher-bearers  must  come,  or  drafts  of  re- 
inforcements, or  someone.  ...  He  must  not 
sleep,  he  must  take  pains  not  to  sleep. 

In  his  darkening  brain  the  two  mamans  became 
confused :  his  own  and  the  one  the  dying  man  had 
called  on  through  a  whole  night.  .  .  .  Which 
one  was  his?  .  .  .  No,  one  mustn't  think  of 
that  any  longer.  His  hands  lying  flat  on  the  cold 
soft  earth,  his -face  offered  to  the  gracious  rain,  he 
looked  into  the  heavy  night,  where  nothing  stirred 
at  all.   .    .    . 

One  must  stay  like  this  a  long  time,  as  long  as 


En  Revenant  de  Montmartre  373 

necessary,  until  somebody  comes.  One  must  not 
think  of  anything  any  more,  must  force  oneself 
not  to  think  any  more.  And  so  in  a  strangling 
voice  that  frightened  itself  he  began  to  sing : 

Eu  revenant  de  Montmartre, 
De  Montmartre  a  Paris, 
J'  rencontre  un  grand  prunier  qu'  etait  ecu  vert  de 
prunes. 
Voil^  r  beau  temps.  .  .  . 

Still  was  Sulphart  before  him,  uttering  his  ditty 
at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Little  Broucke  was  danc- 
ing behind  him,  for  he  was  dead  no  longer: 

Voil^  r  beau  temps, 
Ttire-lure-lure, 
Voil^  r  beau  temps 
Pourvu  que  ga  dure 
Voil^  r  beau  temps  potu*  les  amants. 

The  rain  was  falling  thicker  now,  in  cold  gusts, 
making  a  duller  sound  on  the  coats  of  the  dead 
men.  .  .  .  All  along  his  cheeks  it  was  gliding 
in  chilly  shivering  threads  that  were  quenching  his 
fever.  .  .  .  Without  understanding,  in  mere  deli- 
rium, he  was  still  singing,  with  breaks  in  his  voice: 

J'  rencontre  un  grand  prunier 
Qu'  ^tait  ecu  vert  de  prunes. 
Je  jette  men  baton  dedans,  j'en  fais  toinber 
quelque-z-unes. 
Voild,  r  beau  temps.  .  .  . 


374  Wooden  Crosses 

The  night  seemed  to  be  setting  itself  in  motion, 
on  its  thousand  little  feet  of  rain  that  went  tramp- 
ling. Against  the  wet  tree  that  held  him  up,  a 
huddled  corpse  slipped  and  fell  heavily,  clumsily, 
without  coming  out  of  its  dreaming.  Gilbert 
was  singing  no  longer  now.  His  exhausted  breath 
was  dying  away  in  a  murmur  drowned  by  the  soft 
sound  of  the  rain.  But  his  lips  seemed  still  to  be 
moving : 

Voil^  r  beau  temps, 
Ture-lure-lure, 
.  .  .  r  beau  temps,  pourvu  que  ga  dure.  .  .  . 

The  rain  was  streaming  like  tears  down  his 
cheeks  all  sunken  and  fallen  away.  Then  two 
heavy  tears  rolled  from  out  his  hollowed  eyes,  the 
last  two.   .    .    . 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   hero's   return 

It  was  Springtime.  Behind  the  long  curtains  of 
the  hospital  she  could  be  divined  rose  pink  and 
blonde,  and  the  light  air  dropping  from  the  case- 
ment windows  was  cool  and  soft  as  caressing  hands. 

Never  had  Sulphart  been  so  happy  as  during 
the  few  months  he  spent  in  the  City  Hospital 
of  Bourg.  It  was  only  the  first  weeks  that  were 
painful,  and  whenever  he  woke  up  in  the  morning 
the  bitter  thought  clutched  at  his  heart  directly. 

"Blast!   .    .    .   the  billiard  table!" 

His  coffee  seemed  not  so  good — he  found  it  had  a 
tang — and  he  read  without  interest  or  enjoyment 
the  Lyons  papers  that  the  paper-woman  brought 
from  ward  to  ward.  He  could  think  of  nothing 
but  the  "billiard  table,"  and  those  ten  minutes  of 
suffering  used  to  spoil  his  morning  for  him,  those 
good  hours  of  idleness  when  the  sun  rises  in  the 
spirits  as  well  as  in  the  sky.  When  the  first 
wheeled  stretchers  on  to  which  they  slid  the 
wounded  came  along,  in  spite  of  himself  he  would 
pull  a  wry  face,  and  look  quickly  the  other  way. 
Apprehensively  he  used  to  count  up  how  many 
there  remained  to  be  gone  through  before  his  turn 

375 


376  Wooden  Crosses 

came,  his  stomach  contracted  as  his  time  drew 
nearer,  he  hoped  vaguely  that  something  or  other 
would  happen,  that  they  would  perhaps  forget  him, 
and  when  the  little  carriage  would  none  the  less 
draw  up  alongside  his  bed,  he  would  let  his  im- 
potent anger  burst  out,  just  to  relieve  his  feelings. 
He  eyed  the  porter  with  a  nasty  look — a  tall  fellow 
with  cheeks  bristling  with  stiff  hairs. 

''Blighters  that  get  through  the  war  carting 
about  the  fellows  that  get  smashed  up  in  their 
place,"  he  would  growl.  "There  are  some  blokes 
know  how  to'  get  indoors  when  it  rains.  .  .  . 
Houla !  Houla !  Couldn*t  you  go  a  bit  gentler  ?  No  ? 
Do  you  think  you're  bringing  home  your  hay? 
Peasant!" 

"You're  not  pleased  to  be  going  for  your  game," 
the  other  would  say  banteringly,  without  getting 
angry. 

From  the  operating  ward  there  could  be  heard 
cries,  shrill  complainings,  and  now  and  then  hoarse 
shuddering  moans  when  the  pain  was  too  severe. 
Those  who  had  already  had  their  turn  or  were 
not  going  down  to  be  dressed  used  to  have  a 
thoroughly  good  time  as  they  lay  in  their  beds. 

"That's  the  little  chasseur.  .  .  .  Listen  to 
him  singing  out.  ...  A  real  nice  light  tenor,  I 
tell  you." 

When  they  brought  up  a  patient  just  operated 
on,  inert  and  waxen  on  his  carrier,  still  under 
chloroform,  it  was  a  whole  hour's  entertainment; 
everybody  would  remain  sedulously  silent  to  listen 


The  Hero's  Return  377 

to  him  rambling.  The  day  Sulphart  had  been 
operated  on,  the  nuns,  although  they  were  accus- 
tomed to  hear  every  kind  of  thing,  had  been  forced 
to  go  away  for  decency's  sake.  He  had  shouted 
out  all  kinds  of  horrors,  and  the  boys  of  the  young- 
est classes  of  recruits,  who  had  never  known  a 
barrack  before  the  war,  nor  enjoyed  the  profitable 
instruction  of  their  seniors  in  arms,  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  learning  by  heart  Mother  Blaise  and 
le  Navet,  which  he  sang  through  without  omitting 
a  single  couplet. 

Once  his  operation  had  been  got  through,  and 
sure  of  not  having  to  go  back  to  the  front  for  a  long 
time,  Sulphart  now  alleviated  of  two  sources  of 
torment,  felt  himself  revive,  and  if  only  it  had  not 
been  for  the  daily  ceremony  of  dressing  his  wound 
he  would  have  been  completely  happy.  His 
hand,  still  all  swathed  about  in  white,  with  its  two 
amputated  fingers  gave  him  a  certain  amount  of 
discomfort,  and  he  could  not  talk  without  tiring, 
for  the  surgeons  had  twice  opened  up  his  chest  to 
take  out  shell  splinters,  but  that  classed  him 
amongst  the  seriously  wounded,  and  over  and 
above  the  specially  favourable  treatment  it  en- 
sured for  him — cafe  au  lait,  jams,  beefsteaks — he 
derived  from  it  also  certain  moral  advantages  of 
which  he  was  very  sensible.  Everybody  had  a  cer- 
tain consideration  for  him,  the  doctors  spoke  more 
gently  to  him  than  to  the  others,  the  "mandoline" 
was  forthcoming  for  him  at  the  first  time  of  asking. 
And  never  had  a  nurse  halted  anywhere  near  his 


378  Wooden  Crosses 

bed  without  arranging  his  pillow  for  him  accord- 
ing to  her  ideas  of  his  comfort,  even  if  he  had  taken 
ever  so  much  pains  to  settle  them  otherwise.  They 
said  of  him,  always  with  a  shade  of  sympathy 
appearing  in  their  voices : 

''That's  the  one  who  has  had  a  rib  sawed  away." 

And  he  would  bend  his  head  with  a  pallid  smile 
as  if  he  meant  to  say  ''thank  you." 

In  the  whole  ward  he  had  practically  only  one 
serious  rival,  a  poor  devil  who  had  had  one  of  his 
legs  cut  off,  and  he  was  just  a  trifle  jealous  when 
he  saw  this  other  gravely  wounded  case  receiving 
something  of  the  fuss  and  kindness  that  used  to 
come  to  him  by  right  and  due.  To  begin  with, 
the  other  fellow  was  an  artilleryman,  and  accord- 
ing to  Sulphart,  the  only  soldiers  who  went  through 
the  war  were  the  "rag-pickers,"  the  rest  were  there 
for  nothing  else  but  just  to  "keep  the  score" ;  and 
so,  when  anybody  talked  to  him  about  the  lofty 
feats  of  an  aviator,  an  artilleryman,  or  cavalry- 
man he  would  say  simply:  "Up  a  stick,"  which 
signified  that  he  didn't  believe  a  word  of  all  these 
alleged  heroisms.  To  tease  the  fellow  who  had 
lost  his  leg,  he  used  to  tell  the  nurses  that  the 
gunners  were  "boys  that  spent  all  their  days  breed- 
ing rabbits  and  running  after  the  girls,"  and  that 
it  was  a  matter  of  the  most  complete  notoriety 
that  they  couldn't  set  to  work  with  their  guns  with- 
out firing  short  and  killing  three  fourths  of  the 
poor  poilus  in  the  trench. 

Like  all  the  wounded  men,  Sulphart  was  stuffed 


The  Hero's  Return  379 

with  reminiscences  of  the  war  that  he  was  very 
fain  to  narrate,  he  had  his  cheeks,  so  to  say,  bulg- 
ing with  them,  and  they  dribbled  quite  as  a  matter 
of  course  from  his  lips  like  the  milk  out  of  the 
mouth  of  a  baby  that  has  sucked  too  much.  Di- 
rectly he  spoke,  it  was  the  trenches,  barbed  wire, 
sentry-go,  macaroni,  the  barrage,  gas,  all  that  night- 
mare he  could  never  manage  to  forget. 

And  yet  at  the  outset  he  had  been  strangely 
reserved.  He  had  read  in  the  newspapers  ac- 
counts that  had  made  him  ashamed:  the  gallant 
corporal  who  all  by  himself  alone  exterminated 
a  whole  company  with  his  automatic  rifle  and 
finished  off  the  rest  with  bombs ;  the  Zouave  who 
spitted  fifty  Boches  on  the  point  of  his  bay- 
onet; a  boy  soldier  who  brought  back  from  pat- 
rol a  whole  string  of  prisoners,  including  one 
officer  that  he  led  along  on  a  leash;  the  conval- 
escent chasseur -d^'pied  who  ran  away  from  hospital 
as  soon  as  he  heard  that  the  offensive  had  begun, 
and  had  gone  to  a  glorious  death  with  his  regiment. 
.  .  .  When  he  had  read  a  tale  of  this  kind,  he 
no  longer  dared  to  put  out  one  of  his  own,  calcu- 
lating within  himself  that  his  little  anecdotes 
could  have  but  little  or  no  effect  in  the  midst  of 
those  feats  of  arms. 

But  it  was  quite  impossible  for  him  to  remain 
silent  for  very  long.  One  day  he  risked  it,  and 
told  in  his  own  way,  with  no  attempt  at  glorifica- 
tion, rather  with  a  touch  of  mockery,  an  entirely 
fabricated  story  in  which  he  played  with  modest 


38o  Wooden  Crosses 

bravery  the  exposed  part  of  a  volunteer  patrol. 
One  night  he  had  left  the  trench  to  go  and  gather 
a  clump  of  mistletoe  he  had  marked  down  be- 
tween the  lines,  and  astride  on  a  branch  he  had 
found  a  big  Bavarian  equally  a  collector  and  con- 
noisseur of  mistletoe.  He  had  made  him  come 
down,  forced  him  to  give  him  a  back  to  climb  into 
the  tree,  and  then,  with  his  bunch  of  mistletoe  in 
his  hand,  he  had  brought  back  his  Boche  to  his 
own  trench  showing  him  the  way  with  hearty 
kicks  behind. 

His  neighbour  in  the  next  bed,  a  little  chasseur, 
hadn't  believed  a  single  word,  and  had  nearly 
died  with  wrath :  but  the  good  sister  for  whom  the 
tale  was  meant  had  laughed  over  it  the  whole  of 
the  day. 

That  had  decided  Sulphart  to  tell  other  yams 
of  the  same  kind ;  and  soon  he  was  the  hero  of  the 
whole  establishment  and  civilians  came  in  specially 
and  expressly  to  hear  him. 

The  hospital  staff — the  doctors,  the  nurses,  the 
nuns,  the  chaplain,  the  ladies  who  came  in  at 
eleven  o'clock  all  out  of  breath,  and  quickly 
donned  their  white  blouses  to  serve  the  wounded 
men  their  luncheon — each  and  all  had  heard  so 
many  soldiers'  tales  that  no  stories  of  the  war  were 
capable  of  surprising  them  any  more,  but  with 
Sulphart  it  was  a  complete  change  and  novelty 
of  style  and  fashion. 

In  his  mouth  the  war  became  a  sort  of  gigantic, 
humbugging  joke,  a  marvellous  succession  of  vigils, 


The  Hero's  Return  381 

of  patrols,  attacks,  stunning  adventures.  Listen- 
ing to  him,  the  most  backward  fellow  of  the 
auxiliary  services  would  have  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  go  to  the  front. 

But  the  other  wounded  men  who  were  coming 
back  from  that  front  were  less  credulous  listeners, 
and  Sulphart's  stories  made  them  ill  with  fury. 
As  long  as  the  nurses  were  thronging  round  the 
bed,  listening  in  attentive  enthralment  to  the 
narrator,  they  dared  say  nothing — at  the  most  to 
grin  surreptitiously — but  the  moment  the  nurses 
had  gone,  even  the  most  feeble  of  them,  could  be 
seen  to  rouse  themselves  to  life  again,  the  most 
recently  operated  on  coming  out  of  their  semi- 
comatose condition,  the  convalescents  abandoning 
their  macrame  lace,  and,  sitting  up  in  their  beds, 
they  would  begin  to  curse  and  swear  at  Sulphart 
with  faces  convulsed  with  wrath. 

*  *  Was  it  at  the  cinema  you  saw  all  that  played  ? ' ' 

''We'll  make  you  shut  your  big  jaw,  you 
crammer !  you  and  your  yarns ! ' ' 

"One  thing  certain,  he  can't  have  done  much  of 
anything  up  at  the  front  to  tell  all  that  stuff 
about  it.    .    .    ." 

"That  sort  of  fellow  would  do  anything  to  suck 
up  to  the  women  just  to  be  better  served  than  the 
rest  of  the  boys." 

The  artilleryman  was  the  only  one  who  never 
got  angry  over  it.  Whenever  Sulphart  had  been 
talking  at  great  length  and  was  squaring  himself 
up  against  his  pillows,  his  cheeks  full  of  colour 


3^2  Wooden  Crosses 

and  proud  of  his  success,  he  would  merely  say  to 
him  in  a  friendly  affectionate  little  way : 

"You're  looking  well.  .  .  .  It's  a  great  pleas- 
ure to  see  it.  .  .  .  The  doctor  is  looking  pleased 
and  satisfied,  did  you  notice  ?  .  .  .  Come,  don't 
you  worry,  at  the  next  inspection  everything  will 
be  settled  nicely,  fifteen  days  in  a  convalescent 
home,  and  you'll  be  going  back  to  the  firing " 

That  sort  of  promise  shut  up  Sulphart's  joy  like 
a  knife,  and  when  he  was  telling  his  tales,  nothing 
annoyed  him  more  than  the  perfidious  voice  of 
the  amputated  one  repeating  softly  with  the  per- 
sistency of  a  parrot : 

"Fit!  .    .    .     Fit!" 

The  others,  for  that  matter,  never  held  any  ill 
will  to  him  for  long :  he  used  to  distribute  among 
them  the  packets  of  cigarettes  the  ladies  gave  him, 
and  share  round  the  litres  of  wine  he  used  to  have 
brought  up  to  him  by  night  on  the  sly.  That 
always  ended  in  making  them  lenient. 

Sulphart  remained  for  more  than  a  month  with 
no  news  from  the  regiment ;  and  then  one  morning 
a  letter  from  Lemoine  told  him  everything  at 
once:  Gilbert's  death,  and  that  Bouffioux  was 
dead  too,  Vieuble  severely  wounded,  Ricordeau 
missing   ...   a  regular  massacre. 

His  sorrow  was  far  from  dumb.  He  re-read  the 
letter  twice  with  exclamations  of  grief  and  despair. 
All  day  long  he  talked  of  nothing  but  Gilbert,  his 
generosity,  his  intelligence,  the  hard  fighting  they 
had  been  through  together,  and  the  good  life  they 


The  Hero's  Return  383 

lived  when  the  regiment  was  resting,  and  he  diluted 
his  distress  with  wordy  gossiping,  repeating  to  all 
and  sundry  that  he  had  lost  his  best  pal,  nothing 
short  of  a  brother  to  him,  and  then  when  night  had 
come,  and  his  agitation  had  calmed  down,  lying 
the  only  one  left  awake  in  the  ward  with  its  white 
beds,  he  had  dreamed  to  himself  and  then  only  did 
he  really  feel  that  his  friend  was  dead. 

With  a  strange  clearness  and  preciseness  he  had 
recalled  Gilbert,  the  day  of  his  arrival  at  the  front, 
and  their  first  sleeping  in  the  cramped  stable  where 
the  squad  was  crowded  together.  With  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  bare  ceiling,  upon  which  the  night- 
lights  threw  their  melancholy  shadows  of  their 
screens,  he  saw  once  again  all  the  comrades  in  the 
exact  positions  they  occupied  that  night,  this  one 
all  curled  up  under  his  blanket,  and  that  one  stiff 
and  straight,  with  his  socks  full  of  holes  sticking 
out  from  his  sleeping  place.  They  were  all  born 
again  in  his  memory,  their  faces  all  cleared  up  with 
their  precise  features,  their  aspect,  their  voices, 
little  details  of  uniform  that  he  had  fancied  for- 
gotten. And  resuscitating  one  after  another,  he 
fancied  they  all  seemed  to  rise  up  for  one  last  roll- 
call:  Breval,  Vairon,  Fouillatd,  Noury,  Boufiioux, 
Broucke,  Demachy.  .  .  .  And  their  own  voices 
made  answer:  "Dead,  dead,  dead.   .    .    ." 

Sulphart  took  his  first  outings  in  the  little  garden 
belonging  to  the  hospital,  in  which  the  hand- 
some trees  let  the  sunlight  come  sifting  delicately 


384  Wooden  Crosses 

through.  Sitting  on  a  bench  he  used  to  watch 
the  comrades  playing  at  bowls,  giving  them  advice 
they  had  not  asked  for,  or  else  he  chatted  with  the 
young  women  who  used  to  go  there  to  do  sewing. 

Then  he  was  given  leave  to  go  out  into  the  town, 
and  now  he  was  leading  the  Hfe  of  a  gentleman  of 
restricted  but  independent  means.  Taking  his 
constitutional  as  far  as  the  railway  station,  through 
the  Avenue  d'Alsace-Lorraine,  loafing  along  the 
shop-windows,  going  to  look  at  the  communiques 
to  see  whether  there  was  any  mention  of  the  sectors 
in  which  he  had  fought,  taking  an  aperitif  when 
any  one  offered  him  one,  and  going  back  to  hospital 
only  just  for  meals. 

They  found  a  change  in  him.  He  was  less  noisy, 
not  so  gay  now.  At  times  one  of  the  nurses,  a 
lady  belonging  to  the  town,  robust  and  cheery, 
who  was  a  great  favourite  with  the  wounded  men, 
would  question  him. 

"Things  aren't  very  bright,  my  boy?  .  .  . 
Are  you  in  trouble? " 

But  he  would  reply  quickly : 

"Oh,  no,  Madame.  .  .  .  There's  nothing  to 
complain  about." 

He  confided  his  cares  to  no  one.  Posing  as  a 
breaker  of  hearts  in  all  the  little  bars,  the  gay  lad 
who  was  a  regular  "chicken  trainer,"  he  could  not 
very  well  confess  that  it  was  on  his  wife's  account 
that  he  was  so  often  melancholy.  She  now  wrote 
to  him  only  at  long  intervals,  and  then  letters  ten 
lines  long  in  which  she  said  very  politely :  "  I  hope 


The  Hero's  Return  385 

you  are  going  on  well,"  but  without  troubling 
over  much.  Never  had  she  asked  whether  he 
was  expecting  to  come  home  soon,  nor  for  how 
long.  She  had  indeed  gone  so  far  as  to  write  that 
she  was  no  longer  in  the  same  workrooms,  but 
without  informing  him  where  she  was  working 
since,  and  to  all  the  questions  he  put  to  her,  she 
never  made  any  answer  at  all.  He  was  seen 
sweating  over  long,  long  letters  in  which  he  piled 
up  reproaches  and  outpourings  of  affection  all 
mixed  up  together,  but  she  never  so  much  as 
referred  to  them  in  her  reply. 

And  then  he  would  think  as  he  suddenly 
clutched  his  fists : 

** Just  let  me  once  get  there  convalescent!  .  .  . 
Won't  I  give  her  what  for!" 

But  on  reflection  his  anger  never  held  out. 

*'If  I  start  playing  the  husband  and  she  lets  me 
down  with  a  thud,"  he  calculated,  "it  will  still  be 
me  that'll  be  in  trouble." 

Ever  since  he  was  healed,  the  thought  of  his 
medical  inspection  was  also  troubling  him.  Sup- 
pose they  were  going  to  keep  him  on  active  service, 
to  send  him  back  to  the  front  ?  He  followed  with 
breathless  interest  the  discussions  of  the  dis- 
charge boards  and  the  leave  committee.  In- 
terminably he  used  to  question  those  who  had  just 
been  through ;  he  followed  with  anxiety  the  baro- 
meter of  the  boards,  to-day  lenient,  to-morrow 
severe,  and  was  intriguing  with  the  secretaries. 
Already  he  knew  the  names  of  all  the  doctors. 


386  Wooden  Crosses 

knew  their  fads,  their  preferences,  and  he  had  a 
very  decided  opinion  on  every  one,  finding  them 
clever  or  the  reverse  in  accordance  with  whether 
they  gave  discharges  more  or  less  rapidly. 

He  was  beginning  to  cough  again,  and  putting 
some  constraint  on  himself,  he  refused  to  eat  as 
much  as  his  appetite  prompted,  and  learned  to 
walk  round-backed  and  leaning  heavily  on  a  stick. 
The  artilleryman  even  accused  him  of  smoking 
sulphur  on  inspection  mornings,  to  make  his  lungs 
wheeze. 

When  he  was  out  on  his  walks  he  recovered 
his  voice  to  talk  loudly  and  confidently. 

**  They'll  never  have  me.  ...  A  fellow 
chipped  about  like  me  can't  be  sent  back  to  the 
slaughter.  .  .  .  They'll  have  to  drag  me  along 
by  the  feet  first." 

The  artilleryman  who  was  following  them  on 
his  crutches  would  growl  in  his  back. 

' '  He's  punctured  1  .    .    .     I  was  sure  he  would. " 

"I've  done  my  fair  share,"  Sulphart  would  re- 
tort. ''Now  I'm  fed  up.  .  .  .  Anybody  that 
feels  on  for  it,  it's  not  me  that's  going  to  take  his 
place." 

The  day  he  went  before  his  board,  his  comrades 
were  having  a  bite  in  a  little  cafe  whose  pro- 
prietress was  famous  for  her  frying.  He  arrived 
transfigured  without  his  stick,  his  cheeks  rosy. 

"Discharged,  category  one,"  he  shouted.  .  .  . 
"With  a  pension,  boys.  .  .  .  Hurrah  for  the  end 
of  my  service." 


The  Hero's  Return  387 

The  artilleryman  held  out  a  letter  to  him. 

"Here,"  he  said,  "here's  a  screed  that's  come 
for  you.  .  .  ." 

It  was  from  his  concierge:  it  told  him  that  his 
wife  had  gone  off  with  a  Belgian,  taking  all  the 
furniture  with  her. 

The  others  noticed  nothing :  not  even  his  dread- 
ful pallor.  He  stood  two  bottles,  he  ragged  and 
chaffed  with  them,  and  glass  in  hand,  sang  Le  Rhe 
Passe.  Only,  as  he  went  out — perhaps  a  touch  of 
chill — he  began  to  spit  blood. 


"Yes,  Madame  Quignon,  I  tell  you  she's  a  filthy 
bitch,  that  woman  is." 

"Bah!"  replied  the  concierge,  stirring  away  at 
her  ragout,  "it's  always  not  till  they've  left  you 
that  you  men  discover  that  kind  of  thing." 

Vexed,  Sulphart  had  climbed  once  more  up  to 
his  home,  where  his  wife  had  left  nothing  but  a 
bedstead,  a  cane  bottomed  chair,  and  a  handsome 
calendar  that  had  been  a  wedding  present  to  them. 
For  a  whole  week  since  he  had  come  back  he  had 
been  idly  kicking  his  heels  about  Rouen  with 
nothing  to  do.  Going  to  see  old  friends  of  his 
family  life,  killing  time  in  wine  shops,  waiting  for 
comrades  at  the  door  of  the  factory,  and  every- 
where and  at  all  times  he  spoke  of  nothing  but  his 
wife,  even  to  those  who  had  never  known  her. 

"To  clear  out  with  all  the  sticks,  the  trollop! 
.  .  .     And  not  as  much  as  a  letter,  nothing.  .  .  .  ** 


388  Wooden  Crosses 

By  dint  of  everlastingly  repeating  the  same  old 
story  he  had  very  speedily  tired  everybody  out. 
The  women,  for  the  most  part,  took  sides  against 
him,  saying  that  Mathilde  couldn't  very  well  be 
expected  to  remain  alone  always  and  bore  herself 
with  her  own  company,  that  "that"  had  been 
going  on  a  great  deal  too  long  now,  and  that  the 
men  would  perhaps  have  done  much  worse  if  they 
had  been  in  the  same  boat  as  the  women. 

Sulphart  was  turning  sour.  He  had  had  nothing 
but  disappointments  since  his  arrival.  In  the 
barracks,  where  he  looked  to  recover  his  civilian 
effects  that  he  had  left  there  on  the  second  of  August, 
1914,  the  sergeant-major  had  simply  shrugged  his 
shoulders:  "His  duds?  they  were  far  enough.  .  .  . 
They  had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  made  up  bundles  of 
clothes,  carefully  labelled  and  packed  away  in  well- 
ordered  piles  according  to  regulations,  but  tm- 
happily  some  fellows  had  left  a  bit  of  cheese  in  a 
pocket,  others  a  sandwich  or  the  butt  end  of  a 
sausage,  all  had  gone  rotten,  the  rats  and  vermin 
had  got  into  them,  and  it  had  been  necessary  to 
burn  the  lot.   ..." 

It  was  an  association  that  was  obliged  to  fit  him 
out  with  clothes,  and  for  footgear  they  left  him  by 
way  of  keepsake  his  old  laced-up-trench  boots,  all 
Hardened  and  stiff  with  mud.  In  his  workshop 
he  had  not  found  his  job  again,  as  the  proprietor 
had  sub-let  it  to  a  mimition  facotry,  and  at  the 
railway  they  had  found  him  not  strong  enough. 
Besides,  in  any  case,  he  was  looking  for  work  with 


The  Hero's  Return  389 

no  great  wish  to  find  it,  leaving  it  to  chance  to 
feed  him  when  he  should  have  eaten  his  last  francs, 
and  too  much  used  now  to  find  his  stew  ready  at 
the  kitchen  cart  to  take  any  other  view  than  that 
grub  was  the  inalienable  right  of  men  even  as  the 
light  of  the  sun.  Everything  appeared  to  him  to 
be  going  crooked,  and  he  used  to  say: 

*'If  there  had  been  anything  like  the  mess  and 
dirty  tricks  at  the  front  like  what  there  is  in  the 
rear,  the  Boches  would  have  been  in  Bordeaux 
since  pay-day." 

When  he  was  going  home  at  night — often  with  a 
glass  too  much  inside  him — he  used  to  stop  with 
his  concierge,  and  before  goirg  up  into  his  bare 
room,  he  would  relieve  himself  of  all  the  rage  and 
fury  he  had  in  his  heart  and  only  half  concealed. 
This  unjust  stroke  of  ill  fate — his  wife's  running 
away — raised  about  him  four  prison  walls  against 
which  he  beat  and  bruised  his  head. 

"No,  after  I've  been  through  .  .  .  it's  a  bit 
too  much.  .  .  .  We've  really  had  some  bad 
times  and  suffering,  us  fellows,  Madame  Quignon. 
.    .    .     Look  here,  at  Craonne,  just  fancy.   .    .    . " 

But  the  concierge  straightway  threw  up  her  arms, 
as  though  to  beg  for  mercy. 

"Ah!  Monsieur  Sulphart,"  she  implored,  "don't 
go  on  telling  me  any  more  of  these  tales  about 
trenches;  we've  had  our  ears  burst  in  with  them.'* 

Discouraged,  he  went  up  to  go  to  bed.  He  had 
stuck  a  bayonet  in  the  floor,  at  the  head  of  his 
bed,  and  that  served  him  as  a  candlestick,  just  as 


390  Wooden  Crosses 

it  had  done  at  the  front.  Out  of  a  cupboard  he 
brought  dusty  illustrated  papers,  old  newspapers, 
and  read  at  them  to  put  himself  to  sleep.  That 
was  how  he  came  upon  the  forgotten  article  of  a 
member  of  the  Academy. 

"We  have  contracted  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  our 
poilus  that  we  shall  never  forget,"  said  the  writer. 
.  .  .  "We  are  their  debtors  for  all  the  sufferings 
that  we  have  not  gone  through!   .    .    .  " 

Sulphart  cut  out  the  article  and  carefully  laid 
it  away  in  his  notebook. 


He  reached  Paris  with  only  seven  francs  in  his 
pocket,  but  the  very  same  morning  he  was  en- 
gaged to  start  work  next  day  in  a  firm  at  Levallois. 
For  the  first  time  since  he  had  resumed  civilian 
attire  he  felt  himself  happy.  Fifteen  francs  a  day ! 
He  kept  reckoning  up  all  the  comfort,  all  the  ease, 
all  the  happiness  he  was  going  to  have  for  his 
fifteen  francs  a  day. 

It  was  his  turn  now  to  take  life  easy.  He 
would  make  a  few  good  pals — boys  who  had  been 
to  the  front  like  himself — he  would  ferret  out  a 
little  wine-shop  handy  to  eat  his  midday  meal  in ; 
he  would  find  a  room  not  too  far  away,  so  that  he 
would  be  able  to  rise  late  in  the  mornings.  Al- 
ready as  he  went  through  the  workrooms,  he  had 
noticed  the  girls,  and  one  especially  who  was  laugh- 
ing as  she  pushed  back  her  hair  with  a  work-black- 
ened hand.     It  made  him  smile  to  think  of  her. 


The  Hero's  Return  391 

**  They're  a  nice  steady  kind,  these  chickens 
are.   .    .    .     They  know  how  to  look  after  a  house." 

He  was  following  his  little  dream,  with  heedless 
eyes,  when  a  motor-car  full  of  ultra  smart  women 
and  smart  imiforms  all  but  knocked  him  over. 
With  a  sharp  leap  backwards  he  dodged  the 
bonnet. 

"Slacker!"  shouted  the  man  who  held  the  steer- 
ing wheel. 

Sulphart  made  a  movement  as  though  to  fling 
himself  on  him,  but  he  contented  himself  with 
showing  his  fist  to  the  car,  shouting  curses  from 
which  only  the  passers-by  could  have  any  benefit. 

The  insult  he  had  received  weighed  upon  his 
heart  all  through  his  luncheon,  and  to  wash  it 
down  he  had  three  separate  goes  of  old  brandy 
with  his  coffee.  Bucked  up  by  this  he  then  went 
for  a  turn  on  the  boulevards.  At  the  door  of  a 
newspaper  office  where  the  commimique  was  posted 
up  there  were  people  discussing  it. 

''They  ought  to  make  a  big  offensive,"  said  a 
fat  gentleman  with  roimd  staring  eyes,  in  a  short 
curt  voice. 

"With  your  beef,"  shouted  Sulphart  into  his  face. 

All  these  civilians  who  had  the  impertinence 
to  speak  about  the  war  drove  him  beside  himself 
with  rage,  but  he  had  no  less  detestation  for  those 
who  never  mentioned  it  at  all,  and  whom  he 
charged  with  egoism. 

As  he  went  loafing  along  the  shops  he  caught 
sight  in  a  tobacconist's  window  of  a  superb  picture 


392  Wooden  Crosses 

all  in  colours  which  brought  him  to  a  standstill  in 
wonder  and  delight.  Formed  of  a  dozen  post- 
cards arranged  together,  this  masterpiece  repre- 
sented a  woman  of  giant  stature  in  a  silver  cuirass, 
holding  a  palm  in  one  hand  and  a  torch  in  the 
other,  and  seeming  to  be  leading  a  farandole  in 
which  could  be  recognized  soldiers  in  grey,  soldiers 
in  green,  soldiers  in  khaki.  The  French  soldier, 
he  fancied,  resembled  him  like  a  brother,  and  that 
flattered  him  infinitely.  He  went  inside  and  asked 
the  woman  behind  the  counter: 

"How  much  is  your  thingummy?" 

"Three  francs,"  said  the  proprietress  drily. 

Sulphart  pulled  a  face  as  he  remembered  that  he 
had  no  more  than  thirty-eight  sous  left. 

"I  would  like  just  one  single  one  out  of  the 
bottom,"  he  persisted.  "Where  there  is  a  poilu 
that  looks  like  me." 

The  shopkeeper  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"We  can't  chop  it  about,"  she  replied  still  in  the 
same  dry  fashion. 

Sulphart  felt  he  was  going  very  red.  And  strik- 
ing the  counter  a  furious  blow  with  his  mutilated 
hand,  he  growled: 

"And  my  hand,  haven't  I  chopped  it  about  for 
you?     Haven't  I?" 

The  shopkeeper  simply  blinked  her  eyes,  as  if 
those  outcries  hirrt  her,  but  without  raising  her 
head,  and  she  continued  to  weigh  out  snuff. 

"At  all  events,"  said  Sulphart  addressing  him- 
self to  a  gentleman  who  was  choosing  cigars,  "any 


The  Hero's  Return  393 

body  who  has  come  back  from  the  front  would 
know  how  sick  that  makes  me." 

The  customer  made  a  vague  sign  with  his  head, 
turned  and  took  a  Hght,  with  big  slow  puffs.  The 
drinkers  at  the  side  were  staring  into  the  bottom 
of  their  glasses,  and  the  waiter  had  opened  a  news- 
paper so  as  to  hear  nothing.  Sulphart,  having 
eyed  them  all,  understood  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, resigned  already. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said,  tossing  thirty  sous 
on  the  coimter.  **Here,  give  me  a  packet  of 
English  cigarettes;  it's  a  long  time  now  that  I've 
been  smoking  nothing  but  rough  stuff." 

That  afternoon,  having  hesitated  a  long  time, 
passed  and  repassed  in  front  of  the  door  without 
daring  to  enter,  he  paid  a  visit  to  Demachy's 
parents.  The  luxury  of  their  flat  made  a  deep 
impression  on  him,  the  mother's  grief  and  distress 
tore  at  his  heart,  and  he  felt  embarrassed,  afraid 
to  seem  ill-bred  by  shuffling  his  feet  or  talking  too 
loud.  As  he  went  away  the  mother  kissed  him 
and  gave  him  a  hundred  francs.  Sulphart  felt 
his  tears  at  the  point  of  flowing,  and  could  not 
even  say  "Thank  you,"  and  hurried  away.  The 
concierge  alone  saw  him  weep. 

"He  was  my  pal,  Gilbert,"  he  said  to  her.  "A 
brave  lad.  .    .    . " 

With  pockets  full,  he  went  off  to  Levallois  to  pay 
his  "say  when"  to  the  boys  of  the  works.  In  the 
warm  atmosphere  of  the  cafe — the  smoke,   the 


394  Wooden  Crosses 

cordial  friendly  voices,  the  chinking  glasses — he 
felt  his  grief  dissolve  away. 

Lying  well  back  and  all  relaxed  on  the  seat 
covered  with  moleskin,  he  drank  his  aperitif  in 
Httle  sips  as  he  watched  the  light  puffs  of  blue 
smoke  waft  away.  The  other  drinkers  were  talk- 
ing about  the  war  with  the  evening  papers  open 
in  front  of  them,  and  that  annoyed  him.  The 
armies  were  just  now  going  forward  ten  kilometres 
in  a  day,  while  in  his  time  they  had  to  toil  and 
moil  for  weeks  on  end  to  wrench  away  a  few  hun- 
dred metres,  and  cover  them  with  dead  men  in 
doing  it.  When  he  pronounced  the  names  of  his 
battles,  tragic  names  that  had  been  deemed  im- 
mortal, nobody  knew  them  now:  the  egoism  of 
the  rear  had  forgotten  them  all.  And  he  felt  a 
kind  of  jealousy  over  it. 

And  yet  that  evening  he  was  happy.  The 
speaker's  words  came  to  him  through  a  mist,  like 
a  meaningless  prattle. 
r  ''We've  only  got  to  wait,"  the  proprietor  was 
I  declaring  noisily,  as  he  juggled  his  bottles  about 
on  the  counter.  *'Now  we're  sure  to  have  them. 
We'll  do  in  their  country  what  they've  been  doing 
in  ours." 

**0h,  do  hold  your  tongue  anyhow,"  protested  a 
workman  who  was  gambling  his  day's  pay  at 
Zanzibar.  ''What's  wanted  is  peace.  It's  dis- 
graceful to  keep  this  filthy  business  going  on." 

Astride  of  a  chair,  with  a  completely  used-up 
look,  livid  cheeks,  and  crimson  ears,  a  drinker. 


The  Hero's  Return  395 

pretty  well  full,  was  mumbling  his  considered 
opinion. 

**  Peace  or  no  peace,  it's  too  late  now,  it's  a  de- 
feat. There's  nothing  to  be  done,  I  tell  you,  the 
game  is  played  out.     For  us  it's  a  defeat." 

Sulphart  raised  his  head  and  stared  purpose- 
fully at  the  one  who  talked  in  that  way. 

"For  my  part,"  said  he,  "I  say  and  I  maintain 
that  it  is  a  victory." 

The  drinker  looked  at  him  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"Why  so,  why  is  it  a  victory?" 

Disconcerted,  Sulphart  cast  about  for  a  moment, 
not  finding  immediately  the  words  he  needed  to 
express  his  saturnine  happiness.  Then  without 
even  understanding  the  terrible  grandeur  of  his 
declaration  and  avowal,  he  replied  crudely: 

* '  I  caU  it  a  victory,  because  I  have  come  out  of 
it  with  my  life." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AND  NOW  IT  IS  OVER 

And  now  it's  over. 

There  is  the  white  sheet  on  the  table,  and  the 
quiet  steady  lamp,  and  the  books.  .  .  .  Could 
one  ever  have  believed  one  would  see  them  again, 
when  one  was  out  there,  so  far  from  one's  lost 
penates  ? 

One  used  to  speak  of  one's  life  as  of  something 
dead  and  gone;  the  certainty  of  never  returning 
drove  between  us  and  it  like  a  sea  without  a  shore, 
and  even  hope  itself  seemed  to  shrink  and  be 
dwarfed,  limiting  its  whole  desire  to  living  until 
the  relief  was  due.  There  were  too  many  shells, 
too  many  dead,  too  many  crosses ;  sooner  or  later 
our  turn  was  bound  to  come. 

And  yet  it's  all  over  now^ 

Life  will  take  up  its  smooth  course  once  more. 
The  cruel  memories  that  torment  us  still  will  be 
assuaged,  will  be  healed;  we  shall  forget,  and  may- 
hap the  time  will  come  when  confounding  the  war 
and  otu-  past  and  vanished  youth,  we  shall  breathe 
a  sigh  of  regret  when  we  think  of  those  years. 

I  recall  one  of  our  noisy  evenings  in  the  mill 
without  sails.     I  said  to  the  lads:      "A  day  will 

396 


And  Now  it  is  Over  397 

come  when  we  will  all  run  across  one  another,  when 
we  will  talk  about  our  pals,  about  the  trenches,  about 
our  hardships  and  our  sprees.  .  .  .  And  we  will 
say  with  a  smile:  'Those  were  the  days!'" 

How  you  shouted  at  me  that  night,  my  com- 
rades. I  even  half  felt  indeed  that  it  was  not 
over  true,  when  I  spoke  to  you  in  this  way.  And 
yet  .    .    .   and  yet.    .    .    . 

It  is  most  true,  we  will  forget.  Oh!  I  know 
perfectly  it  is  hateful,  it  is  cruel,  but  why  be 
indignant  and  rebel?  It  is  human.  .  .  .  Yes, 
there  will  be  happiness,  there  will  be  joy  without 
you,  for  even  as  those  transparent  pools  whose 
limpid  water  sleeps  over  a  bed  of  slime,  man's 
heart  filters  out  its  memories  and  keeps  none  but 
those  of  the  good  days.  Griefs,  hates,  everlasting 
regrets,  all  these  are  too  heavy,  they  fall  to  the 
bottom.   .    .    . 

We  shall  forget.  The  veils  of  mourning  will 
fall,  even  as  the  dead  leaves  fall.  The  image  of  the 
soldier  who  is  disappeared  for  ever  will  slowly  fade 
in  the  consoled  hearts  of  those  he  loved  so  much. 
And  all  the  dead  men  will  die  for  the  second  time. 

No,  your  martyrdom  is  not  over,  my  comrades, 
and  iron  will  deal  you  another  wound  on  the  day 
when  the  peasant's  spade  will  break  into  your 
graves. 

The  houses  will  spring  up  again,  reborn  under 
their  red  roofs,  the  ruins  will  become  towns  once 
more,  and  the  trenches  will  be  fields  again;  the 
soldiers  full  of  victory  and  weariness  will  go  back 


398  Wooden  Crosses 

to  their  own  homes.  But  you  .  .  .  you  will 
never  go  home. 

Those  were  the  good  days.   .    .    . 

I  think  of  your  myriads  of  wooden  crosses,  lined 
up  all  along  the  dusty  highways  where  they  seem  to 
watch  over  the  relief  of  the  living,  that  will  never 
come  to  bring  the  dead  to  life.  Crosses  of  19 14, 
adorned  with  children's  flags,  that  looked  like 
ships  dressed  for  a  festival;  crosses  crowned  with 
kepis;  crosses  helmet ed,  crosses  of  the  Argonne 
forests  that  were  wreathed  in  leafy  green;  crosses 
of  Artois  whose  upright  rigid  army  followed  on  the 
heels  of  ours,  progressing  with  us  from  trench  to 
trench;  crosses  that  the  swollen  Aisne  swept  away, 
far  away  from  the  guns,  and  you,  brotherly,  kindly 
crosses  of  the  rear,  that  gave  yourselves,  nestling 
in  the  undergrowth,  the  air  of  verdant  bowers,  to 
reassure  the  men  starting  for  the  front.  How 
many  are  there  still  standing,  of  all  the  crosses 
that  I  have  planted? 

O  my  dead,  my  dear  dead,  my  poor  dead,  it  is 
now  that  you  are  to  suffer,  with  no  crosses  to  watch 
over  you,  no  hearts  in  which  you  can  nestle  down. 
I  think  I  see  you  wandering  forlornly  with  groping 
gestures,  seeking  in  the  everlasting  night  all  those 
ungrateful  living  folk  that  are  forgetting  you 
already. 

On  evenings  such  as  this  when,  weary  with  all  I 
have  written,  I  let  my  head  fall  into  my  two  hands, 
I  feel  you  all  beside  me,  my  comrades.  You  have 
all  risen  up  from  out  of  the  insecure  tenancy  of 


And  Now  it  is  Over  399 

your  graves,  and  you  are  round  about  me,  and  in  a 
strange  confusion,  I  can  no  longer  distinguish  be- 
tween those  whom  in  the  flesh  and  blood  and  bone 
I  knew  out  there,  and  those  I  have  created  to  be 
the  humble  heroes  of  a  book.  These  have  taken 
up  the  sufferings  of  those,  as  though  to  ease  and 
relieve  them,  they  have  taken  on  their  face,  their 
voice,  and  they  are  so  much  alike,  with  their 
mingled  pains  and  woes  that  my  memories  stray, 
and  now  and  then  I  strive  in  my  disconsolate  heart 
to  recognize  a  missing  comrade  whom  a  shadow 
in  his  very  semblance  has  hidden  from  me. 

You  are  so  young,  so  confident,  so  strong,  my 
comrades :  ah,  no !  you  should  not  have  died.  .  .  . 
Such  a  power  of  life  and  joy  was  in  you  that  it  was 
lord  over  the  blackest  trials.  In  the  mud  of  the 
relief,  under  the  overwhelming  crushing  toil  of 
fatigue,  in  the  face  of  Death  himself  I  have  heard 
your  laughter,  never  seen  your  tears.  Was  it 
your  soul,  poor  lads,  that  divine  bright  nonsense 
that  made  you  ever  strong  and  stronger? 

To  tell  of  your  long  ordeal  I  have  been  fain  to 
laugh,  to  laugh  with  your  own  laughter.  All 
alone,  in  silent  dreaming,  I  have  hoisted  pack  on 
back  again,  and  with  no  companion  for  the  way,  I 
have  followed,  adream,  your  regiment  of  ghosts. 
Will  you  recognize  our  villages,  our  trenches,  the 
communication  ditches  we  dug  together,  the 
crosses  we  planted?  Will  you  recognize  your  own 
gaiety,  my  comrades? 

Those   were   the    good   days.   .    .    .     Aye,    in 


400  Wooden  Crosses 

spite  of  all,  those  were  the  good  days,  since  they 
saw  you  in  your  life.  ...  It  was  a  good  laugh- 
ter when  we  were  resting  between  two  murderous 
marches;  it  was  a  good  laughter  for  a  find  of  a 
handful  of  straw,  or  a  hot  meal;  it  was  a  good 
laughter  for  one  night's  respite;  good  laughter  for 
a  dug-out  that  was  deep  and  solid,  a  winged  piece 
of  fun,  a  stave  of  a  song.  ...  A  comrade  the 
less,  that  was  quickly  forgotten,  and  we  laughed 
all  the  same;  and  yet  their  memory  is  etched 
deeper  and  deeper  with  time,  like  an  acid  that 
goes  on  biting.   .    .    . 

And  now,  when  I  have  come  to  the  last  halt, 
there  steals  upon  me  a  feeling  of  remorse  that  I 
should  have  dared  to  laugh  over  your  hardships, 
as  if  I  had  carved  a  penny  whistle  out  of  the  wood 
of  your  crosses. 

FINIS, 


Ji  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Complete  Catalogue*  sent 
OTk  application 


WHEN  THE 
BLOOD  BURNS 

Br 
E.  W.  SAVI 

The  moving  and  passionate  story  of 
the  love  of  a  beautiful  and  innocent 
young  girl,  who,  unable  to  distinguish 
the  dross  from  the  pure  metal,  finds 
herself  surrounded  by  pitfalls  and 
confronted  with  a  tragic  situation  and 
of  how  she  finally  meets  and  solves 
the  problem.  A  faithful  picture  of 
Anglo-Indian  life. 

G.  p.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

LONDON  NEW  YORK 


WITHOUT  MERCY 

BY 

JOHN  GOODWIN 


Mrs.  Garth,  a  genius  of  finance, 
a  personage  in  the  social  world,  and 
head  of  a  great  banking  firm,  is  de- 
termined that  her  beautif  id  daugh- 
ter shall  not  marry  Sir  Melmoth 
Craven,  of  the  sinister  Sternberg 
Syndicate.  He,  equally  determined, 
and  humiliated,  plans  revenge,  not 
suspecting  that  Mrs.  Garth,  imder 
another  name,  heads  Gordon's, 
Ltd.,  a  notorious  and  powerful 
money-lending  establishment.  A 
story  full  of  thrilling  situations  and 
exciting  incidents. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

New  York  London 


Returned 
Empty 

by 
Florence  L.  Barclay 


Author  of  "The  Rosary,"  "The  Mistress  of  Shenstone," 

"The  Following  of  the  Star,"  "Through  the  Postern 

Gate."  "The  Upas  Tree,"  "The  Broken  Halo," 

"The  Wall  of  Partition,"  "The  White 

Ladies    of    Worcester,"    etc. 


Mrs.  Barclay's  huge  public  will  greet  this 
new  volume  eagerly  after  the  long  silence, 
self-imposed  on  the  author  through  her  un- 
tiring and  noble  war  work. 

The  present  novel  is  a  daring  and  dramatic 
story  of  reincarnation,  startling  in  its  origi- 
nality, and  quite  different  from  any  of  the 
author's  previous  novels. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 
New  York  London 


THE  STRANGENESS 
OF  NOEL  CARTON 

By 

WILLIAM  CAINE 


Noel  Carton,  driven  to  desperation 
by  his  vulgar  little  wife  who,  in  buy- 
ing his  position,  is  forced  to  accept  hnn 
with  it,  determines  to  bury  himself  in 
the  writing  of  a  novel,  in  the  vain  hope 
of  forgetting.  At  the  same  time  he 
elects  to  keep  a  secret  journal.  In  his 
novel  he  subconsciously  draws  the 
portraits  of  the  living  people  surround- 
ing him. 

How  this  novel  becomes  inextricably 
entangled  with  his  own  journal  is  the 
basis  for  this  extraordinarily  original 
stoiy  which  leads  to  an  astounding 
climax. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

New  York  London 


To^xnr^  LTBBAP-' 


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WILL  INCREASE  TO  50  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.00  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


MAY  131933 


ooi 


JAN  24  1941 
JAN    161945 

NOV  4  1946 


'^m 


REC'D  LD 

FEB  1 9  1963 


REC'D  LD 

MAR  1 4  196 
APR 28 1983  - 


d  circ,  APR     9  1983 


,i^^^  AUTO  DISC  CIRC  DEC  07  '92 


sekTtonill 

u.  c  berkeley 
NOV  2 1  2001 


LD  21-50m-8, 


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.   r 


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